


Water

by Peasantaries



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Blow Jobs, Dancing, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Humor, I know there are too many ballet AU's, Jealous Victor Nikiforov, M/M, Mutual Pining, Praise Kink, Self Confidence Issues, Sexual Tension, Viktor is a Huge Dork, Yuuri crushes harder than a twelve year old, but what's one more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-26 21:50:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9923594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Peasantaries/pseuds/Peasantaries
Summary: Yuuri is nineteen, a student at the Royal Ballet School in London, and already having doubts when Viktor Nikiforov joins as a guest teacher.Famous, beloved Russian Prince in Bourne'sSwan Lake, Nikiforov is Yuuri's idol from afar, but these two forces soon collide after Viktor oversees Yuuri practising and decides that Yuuri could surpass him, if only he can learn to move like water.[WILL BE COMPLETED]





	1. Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> So I just finished Yuri!!! On Ice and I'm still not okay. I'll be working again in 3-4 days. 
> 
> I honestly can't believe how long it's taken me to find it — and to join the fandom! I have too many emotions right now and I'm working on this story while re-watching YOI and listening to the soundtrack at the same time. 
> 
> If any of you are in the same position, then feel free to let me know and make a new best friend.
> 
> Disclaimer: I know the very bare minimum about The Royal Ballet School, other than information freely given on the internet. If anything seems wrong, I would greatly appreciate being told.

Viktor Nikiforov is a god.

A being sculpted by a higher power, by the skies and the seas, by golden hands and a careful touch. He moves like water, like the air. His limbs whir as he flies, blurring into wings. A deity of something greater, _capable_ of something greater.

His body is poetry, literature, a piece of art. His smile is the sun.

A perfect creature sent from the heavens to inspire mere mortals, to bring out their full potential, to make the world bright and brilliant through his own brilliance and then quietly fade into the shadows – but then, no, that’s wrong.

Viktor isn’t meant for shadows, he’ll fall back to the rivers and the streams that he came from, he’ll turn to dust in the sunlight and fly away with the wind.

Yuuri Katsuki knows nothing if not this.

There is no way something so perfect can be something as flawed, as thorny and selfish as a human. No, Viktor belongs on a throne. He deserves reverent prayers, back-arched bows.

Yuuri would gladly fall to the dirt just for the chance to kiss his feet.

“Oh my God.” Yuuri stands, sudden. “Oh my god.”

Yuuko frowns, still tying up her laces. “What?”

“Viktor Nikiforov is to teach at the Royal Ballet School.” He breathes out in a rush, eyes wide staring at his phone.

“WHAT?” Yuuko screeches, flinging herself across to grab at the screen.

“Nikiforov is flying from Russia to become a guest teacher at the Royal Ballet School, making him…” Yuuri finds himself trailing off, the shock finally settling in.

“One of the youngest ballet instructors in history.” Yuuko finishes, equally as breathless.

Yuuri doesn’t really remember anything after that, only the next time he comes to awareness, he’s holding his head in both hands, heart beating in his ears, and Yuuko is saying, ‘breathe, listen to me Yuuri, _breathe. _’__

Yuuri shakes his head, and then he finds himself laughing.

It starts as a startled bark, more of a sharp, punched out breath after holding the air in his lungs for so long. But once it happens, it doesn’t stop, and then Yuuri lets his head fall back and laughs.

 

__________*__________

“And you need to remember to breathe, Yuri.” A deeply Russian, deeply familiar voice says.

Yuuri’s head snaps up from the locker in hearing his own name, pulse hammering because that voice, _that voice._

Viktor passes by smoothly, a languidly flowing river. Yuuri finds himself staring, mind filling with white noise--

“Ugh, this again, I breathe when I the best okay so quit nagging.” A voice says alongside Viktor.

Yuri Plisetsky, rising star in the ballet world and Viktor’s chosen student to personally mentor, has his eyes rolled into the back of his head with boredom.

_Of course. He was talking to the better Yuri._

Yuuri pretends it doesn’t hurt. He pretends being hurt over something as stupid and small and petty as that would be – small and petty.

“Ah yes, but then you pass out on stage and that’s no fun, believe me.” Viktor carries on, tone turning playful and oh, what Yuuri would do to have that voice directed at him, to have Viktor’s attention focused on him –

Viktor glances around, as if hearing his own name being called, and looks straight at Yuuri.

Yuuri freezes, muscles locking solidly in place.

“Hello.” Viktor tilts his head, his footfalls stilling as he slows. “You want a picture?” He raises his eyebrows, half a smile on his face, perfectly amiable.

Yuuri stares.

“Sure thing.” Viktor holds out a hand, as if to take Yuuri’s phone.

Yuuri feels his cheeks flame so fast he wonders why there’s no fire alarm. He gapes, wordless, before turning on his heel and walking away.

*

_Idiot, idiot, idiot._

Each step away punctuates his stupidity. Fuck, Viktor’s going to think him some halfwit, incapable of simple speech. Did he really have to do _nothing? _C__ ouldn't he have at least _smiled?_

Yuuri’s eyes sting as he reaches his dorm room, sucking in sharp breaths, his vision wobbling behind his glasses. “Idiot.” He hisses, squeezing his eyes shut as the first tears begin to fall.

When he opens them again, he’s faced with his own idiocy: the glossy posters of Viktor mid-air, soaring through a jump, the printed-out pictures of him smiling for fans, the scraps of anything and everything Yuuri could obtain of him.

Yuuri remembers the day Viktor arrived at the school, the hushed tones during class and practise. Everyone had pushed themselves harder, sweated that little bit more, on the off chance that a silver head would float past the door.

But it didn’t.

Viktor stayed within the grounds of White Lodge, the school for the younger students, and chose Yuri Plisetsky, all but fifteen years old, to take on as a protégé. He’s teaching the rest of the class for the year, but nobody knows what’s next for his own career.

Yuuri feels his cheeks burn, in anger this time. It’s not fair, _it’s not fair _.__ Just because the Upper School is for the older students, just because they’re not as elastic as they once were, as prosperous as they would have been a few years ago, as exciting, as worthy.

“Idiot.” Yuuri spits, and strides forward. He rips roughly at the edge of the poster, the sound of the paper tearing deafening. It startles him, makes him jerk, but then he grits his teeth.

“Idiot!” He shouts, and starts clawing, his nails raking down the wall to get the poster off, away, just get it _out of his sight_. “IDIOT!” He cries, tears blurring the way now. He still knows where to claw, though, because the pictures take up every available space on the wall.


	2. Move

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really pushing myself to update this fic reguarly, as well as update my others. I really hate seeing how long it's been since I've updated a story, because I myself know the feeling of waiting and hoping for the next chapter of a fic

Yuuri spends the next hour mending the pictures back together with sticky tape.

He smoothes down the ripped lines that slice Viktor’s body, and stares at it blankly.

He’s looking at Viktor when he was eighteen and already the star of _The Nutcracker_ , already famous in Russia, but now loved by the world. His dynamic technique, the flowing movements of his body and the ethereal quality of his dance couldn’t be ignored for long.

Once you've seen him, you can’t tear your eyes away. He makes history each time he performs.

Yuuri was twelve when he stared, mesmerised, at Yuuko’s phone where she held it up for him to watch.

“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” She gushed in excitement, playing footage of Viktor practising in studio, the long, high lines extending out, twisting his neck along his arm.

Yuuri nodded breathlessly, legs folded into basket on the floor of the ballet class. His eyes shone as he watched the small screen, thinking, _one day, someday, I’ll dance with you._

Viktor is nearing twenty-six and already has two consecutive Prix Benois de la Danse wins behind him and a gold in the Genée International Ballet Competition, his signature roles including _The Nutcracker_ , _Swan Lake_ and most recently, _Romeo and Juliet._

He’s a born genius, recognized worldwide, described only in words of elegance, ecstasy, a paragon of ballet.

And Yuuri wants to dance with him.

He almost scoffs.

 _Dance?_ With Viktor Nikiforov? It would be a mortal embarrassment. An artist facing a three-year-old armed with a crayon.

Viktor couldn’t even mock him, he’s on a world so far away from Yuuri that all Viktor could do is bend down and explain that it wouldn’t be fair to place their abilities on the same score card.

Yuuri is nineteen years old and already losing ambition fast and hard. He’s never won anything, in fact, last year he didn’t even qualify for the school’s summer performance.

He told himself that this is a prestigious school, that it’s usually only the school alumni that perform. Yuuri is still a student, he hasn't graduated yet, he still has time.

But did Viktor think that? Did he tell himself after every loss, _it’s alright, go retreat into the shadows again?_

Yuuri already knows the answer.

Ballet is more than talent, it’s discipline: it’s blood, sweat and tears and everything in between, punishing and unforgiving, a cruel love that you only learn to adore unconditonally, no matter if you receive anything in return.

Nobody is born at the top, they claw and scratch their way there. Nobody who has awards in ballet doesn’t also have more than a million bad landings, a million missteps and awkward falls, a thousand sprained wrists and ankles, a billion blisters and bruises, a few broken bones thrown in along the way.

Yuuri telling himself that Viktor Nikiforov is a god is just a safety blanket for himself, a way to separate Viktor’s talent from his own.

He thought that Viktor coming here would be a dream come true, a chance to watch his idol in the flesh. In reality, it’s the cold bucket of ice water that wakes him to the fact that Viktor is _human._

He eats, he sleeps, he talks, he laughs. He’s a human being.

He doesn’t dance his way through life, he doesn't simply breathe ballet: he goes for morning runs with his poodle, he holds Yuri’s arms higher during practice, he showers in the communal bathrooms, he scratches the top of his head in thought.

All Yuuri has ever known of Viktor Nikiforov is the Viktor he sees during performances: that otherworldly being of beauty. But in seeing Viktor be so – so unequivocally, starkly, nakedly _human,_ Yuuri sees that his idolisation was a way for him to hide, a way to never fully accept the fact that Yuuri will never be that good.

He will never be that good. If he isn’t anywhere near as good right now, at nineteen, when most rising stars are half a decade younger, then Yuuri needs to face the facts. _He’ll never be good._

“Wow.” Phichit states, as soon as he comes into the room. He blinks up at the walls. “Something happen?”

Yuuri glances over to him, hands limp in his lap. “I spoke to Viktor.”

Phichit blinks. “Uh.” He stares owlishly. “Not what you were expecting?”

Yuuri sighs. “He was fine.” He says weakly. “He didn’t do anything. Asked if I wanted a photo, probably due to my star struck gaping.” He grimaces, trying a weak smile.

Phichit just blinks again. “So why are all the posters down?”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything for a while. “Because I’m not doing ballet anymore.” He looks up again, but this time is gaze is steady. “I’m quitting.”

*

Of course, there’s uproar. These are his friends they’re talking about.

Yuuri simply hangs his head low, neck bowed, as the storm rages on above.

“Why! All because Viktor was some jackass! –” Yuuko is saying, waving an arm frantically, but Yuuri shakes his head.

“He’s not –” Yuuri tries.

His words go unheeded.

“I mean it’s – you can’t just – it’s utterly –” Phichit becomes incomprehensible before he just turns to Otabek. “Say something!”

Otabek shrugs. “It’s your choice.”

Yuuri smiles. “Thanks, Otabek.” He nods.

“OTABEK!” Yuuko cries. “That is _NOT HELPING!”_

Otabek isn’t listening, because his attention is caught by a shadow that passes over them.

That just so happens to belong to Yuri Plisetsky.

Yuri saunters over to their spot by the bars, stopping a few feet away with his arms crossed. “Heard you were retiring or something.” He says, smirk on his face. Of course he's heard. Everyone in the country has with Yuuko's screaming.

“Not a little young?” Yuri quips.

Yuuri flushes, but Yuuko is quick to step forward.

“What are you even doing in here? Where’s your coach?” She raises an eyebrow.

Yuri grits his teeth. “He’s _not_ my coach!” He shouts. “He _picked_ me –”

“Yeah, yeah, same thing.” Yuuko huffs, but Yuuri is staring down at the ground, his vision beginning to blur with another reminder.

“Whatever, I only came to tell that little pig that giving up is _weak_.” Yuri spits, accent thickening. “All these years at school for what? You disgrace ballet if you quit.” Yuri steps close to Yuuri’s face, eyes hard.

“LO- _SER!”_ He cries, and spittle hits Yuuri’s face.

Yuuri rears back, stunned.

Yuri steps back, snarling, but then frowns. “What you staring at, asshole?”

Yuuri glances to see the direction of his gaze is pointed toward Otabek, who is silent, staring hard before shrugging and looking away.

Yuri’s cheeks heat, and he clenches his jaw and storms off.

“Did that almost sound – encouraging?” Phichit asks at large, once he's out of sight.

Yuuri doesn’t answer.

 

*

He enters the empty ballet studio quietly, dark all but for the mirrors reflecting light. He takes his glasses off, gently placing them on the chair.

Yuuri walks onto the bare floor, sets his radio down, and presses play.

The soft tinkering of music begins, the beginning guitar strums, and Yuuri closes his eyes to the sound. His body moves almost without his permission, stretching an arm out, letting his head roll along with it.

 _come on skinny love just last the year,_  
_pour a little salt we were never here,_

Yuuri feels his eyes sting, the roof of his mouth burning with unshed tears as he performs. If he could last year in ballet, if he could just finish ballet school. If his passion could just last a little longer, stretch out for as long as he can bear.

He twirls with more fervour, whipping a leg out and twisting it around, toes quickly turning and pointing to his back. Yuuri lifts his arm, forgetting poise, forgetting the terms and the technicality and just letting himself _be._

 _I tell my love to wreck it all_  
_Cut out all the ropes and let me fall_  
_My, my, my, my, my, my, my, my_  
_Right in the moment, this order's tall_

Yuuri runs into a jump, both legs parted, letting the music wash over him, seep into his skin as he dances. All his ropes are cut loose, and he's moving with his soul.

 _And I told you to be patient_  
_And I told you to be fine_  
_And I told you to be balanced_  
_And I told you to be kind_  
_And in the morning, I'll be with you_  
_But it will be a different kind_

Distantly, Yuuri realises tears are streaming down his face, his breath held tight and fast as he picks up speed, arms turning into a basket and toes against the side of his knee as he spins, a blur of movement.

He’ll always love ballet, but maybe in a different way. He can’t keep watching himself be surpassed, he can’t love something that will never love him. Yuuri jumps again, a quick, fast movement, and then again, spinning around the room with abandon.

 _I told you to be balanced_  
_I told you to be kind_  
_And now all your love is wasted,_  
_Then who the hell was I?_

Letting go of ballet means letting go of Viktor, and although Yuuri never knew him, it still feels as if he let Viktor down in some way. He'll always have unfulfilled dreams, aching regrets. Yuuri squeezes his eyes shut, rushing, bending and twisting his body to the music.

 _Now I'm breaking at the britches_  
_And at the end of all your lines_

Yuuri falls to the floor, rolling across only to lift back up, arms outstretched, spinning.

 _Who will love you?_  
_Who will fight?_

_Who will fall far behind?_

Yuuri’s back arches as he tips his head back, one arm stretching behind him before pulling close again, shooting up as he spins, face lifted upwards toward the ceiling. He holds the pose as the music falls to a soft crescendo, fading into the distance before stopping completely.

Yuuri gasps, frozen for a moment, before he’s crying, clenching his fists as collapses to his knees, pressing his forehead to the ground. His breath hitches on sobs, the tears falling rapidly now.

It takes a while, but Yuuri eventually calms down, gathering himself. He blows out a breath slowly, shuddering an exhale. His chest is tight, lungs contrasting, but he picks himself up off the floor slowly, hair sticking to his forehead in sweat, muscles aching in exertion.

Yuuri gathers his glasses and puts them on, wiping his brow, and steps forward.

Until he freezes, suddenly still, a block of ice.

Viktor Nikiforov is leant against the doorframe, arms crossed, elbow on his arm and finger pressed to his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the information I used for ballet competitions, in case you wanted to know. It took quite some research, but if anything seems wrong or doesn't make sense, please let me know!
> 
> [ Royal Ballet School ](https://www.royalballetschool.org.uk/train/dancer-training/performance-opportunities/summer-performances-2016/)
> 
> [ competitions ](https://www.rad.org.uk/achieve/the-genee/genee-home-page)
> 
> [ competitions ](http://benois.theatre.ru/english/about/)
> 
> Song is called 'Skinny Love' by Bon Iver


	3. Dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a month isn't such a long wait, right? Considering my normal is a year. Honestly I can't promise much! But I have hopes for this fic, and want to finish it fairly soon. 
> 
> This is a short update, hopefully from here they'll be longer, but again, if the short ones are preferred, let me know!

Yuuri doesn't dare move, doesn't dare breathe. He just freezes, arm stilling mid-air, his foot caught in a half-step.

Viktor doesn't move either.

In fact, he stays that way for a few moments, finger to his lip, almost lost in thought.

But then he's unfolding from his leant position and walking forward, two arms falling to his sides. He stops just short of a few metres away, and he's silent.

"What is your name?" He asks, eventually.

Viktor's voice is soft, quiet, but it still holds it's own power in the dark space between them, carried by the proximity.

"Kat - Katsuki Yuuri." Yuuri stutters, and he would mortified by the tremble if he weren't standing in front of _Viktor Nikiforov._

"Yuuri." Viktor repeats, airy and bright, and makes a light humming sound in the back of his throat. Then he fixes Yuuri with his eyes, and Yuuri's muscles lock in place, this time from the piercing intensity behind his gaze.

"Why have I never seen that before?" He asks, perfectly genial, but there's something lurking behind his tone.

Yuuri blinks. "I - I'm at the Upper School, I don't think you -"

"No, no." Viktor chuckles, but the sound is strange, _off_. "No." He states, voice suddenly hard. "I watched all the Upper School practises, I came every day for a week." He's still looking at Yuuri. "So why have I never seen that before?"

Yuuri desperately wracks his brain, trying to think back to the practising he did the week that Viktor was shown around the school, and to his horror, he vaguely remembers doing a bad landing and sitting out for the rest of the day, too embarrassed to even try with the thought that Viktor's eyes could be on him at any moment.

"I - I." Yuuri stutters again, a flush riding high on his cheeks that has nothing to do with the exertion. "I don't know." Is all he can offer.

"Hmm." Viktor hums again, but his shoulders are tense, and he crosses his arms, that finger coming up to rest at his lips again.

"Are you - okay?" Yuuri asks dumbly.

"I think this is the angriest I have ever been." Viktor states plainly. Yuuri can only stare.

"What?" Leaves his mouth without his permission, a breathless exhale.

Viktor turns around and faces the mirrors, tapping his index finger against his mouth. "Yes. I can't remember being this angry. Maybe when Yakov pushed for those interviews. Hm." He makes that same noise again. "It's a strange feeling, wouldn't you say?" He turns and grins at Yuuri, a blinding flash of teeth, but even Yuuri can see it's tight, strained.

"I'm not ... " Yuuri begins, helpless. "Sure why ..." his voice trails away awkwardly, fading into the air.

Viktor pauses in the gentle swaying motion he had been doing, the tapping of his finger suddenly ceasing. "Why?" He asks, and arches an eyebrow.

Yuuri doesn't say anything. He can only stare at Viktor as he turns, head tilted almost curiously as he surveys Yuuri.

"Because you are who I'm looking for." Viktor says, as simple as fact. "And if it hadn't been for an open door, my sleeplessness, and a variety of other chance circumstances, I would never have found you."

Yuuri is pretty sure this is what people mean when they say their heart stops.

He feels it in his chest, and then suddenly the thudding in his ears is awash with a strange ringing, and his pulse, for that second, doesn't beat.

But then everything kick-starts again with a sickening lurch, heart jolting, hit clenching, and he makes a wordless noise of shock.

"Ah." Viktor begins, the longer Yuuri doesn't say anything, and waggles a finger. "You must be wondering about my other protégé." He seems to sense Yuuri's confusion, and nods.

"Yuri is undeniably talented, yes, and I plan to continuing coaching him, because there's something there that's not yet been - brought to the surface." Viktor says, waving a hand around as if searching for the words. "But his movements are too tied to technique, to the rules of ballet. Perfectionism is a curse, one Yuri bears alone, one we all battle with." Viktor smiles, wolfish. "You, however, are imperfectly perfect."

Yuuri blinks.

"There is no technique to your ballet." Viktor states, almost gleefully. "It might almost be called interpretative dance, where it not for the placement of your feet."

Yuuri feels as if he's been slapped. His cheeks are stinging, a raw pain on his face. He's almost sure he has been.

"I'm going to mould you, shape you, Katsuki Yuuri." Viktor proclaims. "I'm going to be the hands that change your body."

Yuuri is silent. Then he picks up his radio and strides away.

"Wh -" Viktor makes a stunned noise, and jogs a little to catch up. "Yuuri?"

"No thanks." Yuuri states, heart hammering.

 _"Eh?"_ Viktor's voice rises in pitch, comically high. It's clear he's never been told _no_ before.

"I don't need to be shaped." Yuuri yanks the door handle, flinging it open. "I'm quitting ballet."

Viktor is now the one motionless. "I - sorry, do I hear right -"

"Yeah." Yuuri states. "I'm quitting."

Yuuri doesn't wait for a reply, just continues gathering his things and putting on his glasses, and he's got on foot out the door, until.

"Yuuri."

Yuuri stops. The voice behind him sounded changed; resigned and a little bit tired.

He turns.

Viktor stands where Yuuri left him. He lifts one side of his mouth. "Me too."

 

*

Yuuri stares up at his ceiling that night, at the dried, peeling paint, completely unable to sleep.

 _Me too._ _Me too._ _Yuuri. Me too._

Yuuri sighs and tosses over in bed, gritting his teeth as he remembers the conversation. Remembers his dumb-struck reaction, mouth falling open.

 _"What?"_ He'd shouted, a fresh wave of emotion coming over him.

Viktor stared back with a well of sadness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "Do you want to know." He begins, softly. "Why it is, exactly, that I've come here in the first place? What it is that I'm looking for?"

Yuuri is silent.

"Inspiration." Viktor answers plainly. "I've lost it. To lose such a thing, Yuuri, is to be as good as dead."

Yuuri watches him. "What makes you think I have inspiration?"

Viktor blinks, and then he's smiling. "But that's your greatest asset." He replies. "I just watched you preform. There's no finesse, but there's feeling. Finesse can be trained, it can be taught. Feeling, however." He tilts his head. "Now that's something much harder to find."

Yuuri breathes for a moment. "Anyone can dance with feeling." He says.

Viktor's smile slips. "Anyone can dance." He amends. "But dancing with feeling, well, that's something not even I can do."

Yuuri blinks. "What?"

Viktor chuckles. "It shouldn't be as surprising as it is." He shakes his head. "The truth is, Yuuri, I've never danced and felt anything."

Yuuri looks at him. He look for a long time, eyes flitting over Viktor's face.

Viktor holds open both arms. "Search and you will find." He states, humour saturating his voice, although there was nothing genuine about it. "Ballet, I admit, is now so ingrained in my body that I can't incorporate feeling into it. And without feeling, there's a distinct - lack of wanting to feel." He lets his arms drop. "Without wanting to feel, where does that leave inspiration?"

Yuuri doesn't say anything. He doesn't think he can.

"I came here to find feeling again." Viktor tells him. "And I've just found it."


	4. Inspire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what - what is this? an update? could it be?
> 
> I'm trying real hard here fella's to keep to some kind of frequent updating system, and a week I could probably manage. I do enjoy writing this story, I just need to force myself to finish.  
> p.s apologies about the cheese level of chapter titles, I'm just a girl trying to live her best life

Yuuri Katsuki is avoiding Viktor Nikiforov. 

He doesn't really know when he starts. Yuuri doesn't actually know _how_ all this started. 

But by morning, he finds himself ducking out of sight anytime he hears the familiar baritone, scrambling behind oblivious passer-byers whenever he catches sight of silver grey hair, slipping into quiet hallways and taking a whole _ten more minutes_ to get to class just on the highly improbable _off-chance_ he might run into Viktor. 

So of course, it's all for nothing.

He's making his way toward his locker – after, he should add, hiding behind the corner to wait until the coast was clear – when he hears it.

"Yuuri!"

Viktor shouts his name like a prayer, like an exaltation.

Yuuri puts his head down and keeps walking. 

"Yuuri?" Now Viktor sounds adorably confused and, _horrifyingly_ , a lot closer. "Yuuri, can you hear me?"

Yuuri doesn't reply, but his feet pick up the pace.

"Wh – are you ignoring me?" Viktor's voice lilts upwards in confusion. "Are you angry?"

Yuuri, in his haste, has passed his locker and is now continuing down the corridor, but he keeps walking with purpose. 

"Yuuri this is ridiculous." Viktor's shoes are clipping the floor as he works to catch up. "I know perfectly well you can hear, we spoke just yesterday."

Yuuri bows his head further and renews his efforts.

"You can't keep walking away!" Viktor shouts, frustration seeping into his tone.

Yuuri does.

"Look, I'm walking beside you now." Viktor states, smug.

 And he is. He's jogging a little to keep pace, skipping with each step.

"I really feel this is unnecessary." Viktor informs him after a beat, but Yuuri has his head downturned toward the ground, paying him no attention. 

"Is this because of how I spoke about your ballet?"

No reply.

Viktor is quiet. "Because I told you I was quitting?" 

Yuuri's legs are aching with how fast-paced his clipped steps are.

"Because I interrupted your private session?" Viktor tries.

No reply.

"Because – oh, for goodness _sake_ , Yuuri, I feel like a child!" Viktor suddenly bursts out with, and reaches forward, griping Yuuri's arm and forcing him to a halt. 

"I could open my mouth and scream for an hour!" He declares, shaking Yuuri in his hold as if to emphasise the point.

Yuuri finally gathers the courage and looks at him: at his flushed, hot face, his wild eyes, piercing Yuuri in their intensity. 

He almost wants to glance away, to avert his gaze. 

Yuuri detaches his arm from Viktor's grasp and straightens. 

"Thank you." He states. "But my answer is still no." 

Viktor blinks. 

"I don't want a coach." Yuuri elaborates, when it seems Viktor isn't going to do anything. 

Viktor's mouth works soundlessly for a moment before he settles on. "But – but to dance as you do and simply give it up." He says. "It's - cruel."

"Cruel?" Yuuri frowns. 

Viktor nods, taking a step closer. "Yuuri, I must have –" he cuts himself off, voice rough, and begins again. "I _must_ coach you." 

Yuuri grits his teeth. "I don't want a coach." His voice is hard, final.

Viktor looks at her floor for quite some time. 

"Well." He states. His voice is rough. "That's disappointing." 

Yuuri swallows, but doesn't say anything.

"I can't say I expected this." Viktor begins. "Something so selfish."

Yuuri rears back, thrown. "Sorry?" 

"You – what a waste." Viktor clears his throat, glancing away. "What a wretched waste. To move the way you do, and then deny the world – truly a waste."

Yuuri feels as if the world itself has been tilted on its axis and left unbalanced; wobbling, unsteady. "I don't." He starts, a perfect repetition of their last conversation, at a loss.

Viktor tuts, clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth. "Anyway." He tries on a smile, but it's tight, strained.

Yuuri has seen every single one of Viktor Nikiforov's false smiles, from early morning photos taken with fans to exhausted interviews after a show. 

He's never seen Viktor have as much difficulty lifting up the corners of his mouth as he does now. 

"I suppose I'll shall be going." Viktor says grandly, bowing. "I was actually headed in the opposite direction." He points behind him with the flourish of an arm, all charm, and rises up to give Yuuri a wide beam.

"Ah." Is all Yuuri says. 

Viktor nods, and then suddenly he's bowing again – lowering his head and pressing his hands flat together.

"My apologies, if I caused any inconvenience." 

Yuuri doesn’t have time to reply before Viktor is spinning around, quick on his heel.

He watches the sloping, dejected line of Viktor's shoulders as he leaves, before he sees them straighten, roll around, good as new. 

 

*

Yuuri stares up at his ceiling again, unable to sleep, but this time it’s for an entirely different reason.

He can’t shake the feeling that he’s somehow made a mistake.

 

*

Practise is rough.

If it had been rough before, Yuuri has finally lost all motivation. His body is doing the movements, going through the motions, but his mind is elsewhere.

He doesn’t want to admit it’s with an infuriatingly entitled ballet dancer, and still that fact seems inescapable.

He dances, he’s thinking of Viktor, he eats, he’s thinking of Viktor, he moves, he’s thinking about Viktor, he doesn’t move – he’s still thinking about Viktor.

Yuuri throws in the towel both literally and figuratively after losing concentration for the third time and almost snapping his ankle in half on a bad landing. He scrubs his face with the white cotton before hurtling it against the wall.

“Urgh!” He shouts, angry for no reason.

And really, there is no reason. He’s already decided to quit. He’s already blew off Viktor.

For what? _Pride?_ Embarrassment? Fear? Yuuri can’t even remember his reasons now, he doesn’t even know why he was sonsteadfastly insistent on ignoring Viktor anymore.

He’s opening thendoor to his flat with a shoulder as he hefts his rucksack higher up on his back, barely any energy left, when he spots Phichit, wide-eyed, hands spread.

“I didn’t do anything.” He states.

And then Yuuri sees Viktor Nikiforov passed out on his couch.

He freezes.

“He came in, he asked to wait – I didn’t let him into your room, okay –”             

Yuuri stops, bag slipping from his shoulder and hitting the floor with a dull thud. “How long?” He asks. “How long has he been waiting?”

“Three hours.” Phichit informs him gravely.

Yuuri blinks.

“And not once, okay, did he enter your room.” He carries on.

“Your insistence that he didn’t is making me think that he did.” Yuuri says, voice coming out high and strained.

“He may have seen an open door.” Phichit states, closing one of his hands into a fist. “I can’t be sure.”

Yuuri steps forward suddenly, passing Phichit to stand in front of Viktor.

He’s sleeping so soundly, it's as if he must be exhausted, mouth slightly parted, all his features smoothed out. Yuuri’s gaze roves over his entire face, cataloguing it to memory.

“I already took pictures.” Phichit says.

Yuuri shoots him a look, mouth tight.

“Should I – will I just leave you to it?” He asks, backing away. “I think I’ll leave you to it.” He decides, and then flees.

Yuuri turns back, still searching Viktor’s face, still staring down at his slackened, sleeping expression.

It’s so peaceful. 

The tired lines of his handsome face have all disappeared – not that they were noticeable to begin with, only if you really looked. Only if you really studied a picture and compared it to a happier, more candid one. Yuuri has done it all before, in trying to understand Viktor’s genius, his progress. But somewhere along the line he got caught up, and he was left just watching, looking, gazing – on stage, off stage, at just the person.

And now that person wants to coach Yuuri.

He’d watched Yuuri back – he’d stood outside the practise room and been as captured by Yuuri as Yuuri was of Viktor.

Is this what people call fate? Is this what they talk about when they describe two souls, meant to meet and come together? Yuuri hardly thinks that a worn-out couch in some studio apartment with thousands of teenagers breaking a sweat every day for the chance to do ballet could be classified as fate.

But here he is, sleeping soundly on the sofa as if he’s been lifted up and placed there by some angel.

Yuuri feels his heart start beating and rubs at his chest, slightly dizzy with the thought of being coached by Viktor – being _taught_ by him, moulded by him, seeing his ballet in the flesh and _dancing_ with him –

Two things happen at once.

The first, Viktor’s eyes flutter open, and he wakes up.

The second, Yuuri makes a soft _eek_ sound in the back of his throat.

It’s nothing, really. It’s barely even a noise, more of an exhale. It's really hardly audible.

But it happens, and Viktor blinks up at him, owlishly wide and startled, and then they’re both moving.

“I wasn’t doing –”

“I haven’t been –”

Viktor jumps up, hands held out, Yuuri mirroring the pose.

“I promise, I was allowed in, I do realise how this looks Yuuri –” Viktor is babbling, but Yuuri is speaking over him.

“I just came in and I saw you lying there and Phichit said you had been waiting –”

Viktor makes a high, agreeing noise. “Yes! Phichit! The roommate!”

“And I really wasn’t watching but I didn’t want to wake you –”

“Wait.” Viktor stops him. “What – why are you explaining?”

Yuuri blinks, his mouth working, and then eyes Viktor distrustfully.  “Why are you?”

Viktor looks at him for a minute. Then, as suddenly as he had jumped up, he’s laughing.

His face stretches apart wide, his laughter booming out, until, just as suddenly, Yuuri joins him.

It bubbles to the surface, rising up in his chest, and then he’s laughing too, until they’re just standing there laughing over absolutely nothing.

Yuuri abruptly realises, in the middle of it all, that he’s never actually seen Viktor laugh.

He’s seen Viktor’s polite chuckle to an interviewer, his startled laugh to an overeager fan, but he’s never seen – _this_. He’s never seen this bone-shaking, gut-curling laughter. He’s never seen Viktor’s face so laughingly relaxed, so bright and shining, he’s never seen Viktor’s eyes wet with tears and his nose scrunched in hilarity.

“Wh.” Yuuri tries, but then he’s gasping, flapping a hand wordlessly despite the fact that it’s really _not that funny._

Viktor shakes his head, growing silent, and then he’s inhaling a great gust of air and sucking it in through his teeth, trying to catch his breath, but Yuuri, for some absurd reason, laughs _harder_ at that.

“Stop.” Viktor states, his voice rough with restrained laughter. “Please, we must stop, it hurts.” He’s holding his side, a furrow between his brows even as he’s beaming. “Does it usually hurt?”

Yuuri is grinning, and he probably looks deranged, with sleep-deprived, disarrayed hair and wild eyes, but he finds he can’t care. “Not always.” He says. “Only sometimes.”

“Strange.” Viktor musses, head tilting to the side.

Yuuri chuckles. “Not really.”

Viktor looks at him then. His face has changed, a kind of intensity settling over his features that wasn’t there before. “Do you usually laugh until it hurts?” He asks, and his voice sounds curious more than anything.

“Sometimes.” Yuuri repeats, feeling a little hot and breathless, and not because of laughter.

Viktor swallows. He seems to be gathering his words, or maybe just gathering the courage to say them, and Yuuri feels himself frown, because what could possibly make Viktor Nikiforov pause, until –

“Yuuri, I realise I can’t change your mind –” He begins, voice hard.

“I already have.” Yuuri cuts him off.

Viktor blinks.

“I changed my mind.” Yuuri continues. “I want you to be my coach.”

Viktor doesn’t do anything for a long moment Yuuri is worried he’s said the wrong thing, until suddenly Viktor is springing forward, taking Yuuri into his arms as easily as if he weighs nothing and lifting him into the air.

 _“YUUUURI!”_ He cries, but Yuuri is already gasping, hands flying to Viktor’s shoulders.

“Put me down!” Yuuri screeches as Viktor holds his waist tight and spins him around.

“Why?” Viktor says, indignant, still spinning, and looks up at him, his face suddenly so close –

Yuuri tries desperately to ignore the flaming heat of his face, the uneven, rough, fast-jerk pounding of his heart. “I’m going to fall!” His voice is high-pitched and strained even to his own ears.

“Nonsense!” Viktor laughs, as if that’s the silliest thing he’s ever heard. “I’ve got you!”

“Wh – put me _down!”_ His voice cracks, his whole throat hot. “Viktor, stop! You’ve lifted me up, now _put me down!”_

“No!” Viktor states, as petulant as a child, still circling around the small living room unsteadily.

“Why?” Yuuri cries back.

“Because!” Suddenly Yuuri is being let go to slide down, and then hands are travelling up his arms, his shoulders, to tip his face up and cup his jaw. “I’m _happy_.” Viktor laughs, pressing their foreheads together.


	5. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I can see the chapter count going up for this one because a) it's a lot easier to update in smaller chapters and a lot more fun and b) I have way too many ideas but I don't want to leave it as chapter/? because it just looks messy and untidy and generally hurts my brain

As it turns out, being coached by Viktor Nikiforov isn’t all it seems.

Viktor, as Yuuri discovers, is a _Touchy-Feely Person._

As Yuuri is practicing, he’ll come up right behind Yuuri’s back, lean in and tilt his head almost upside down as he beams into Yuuri’s face doing an arabesque, making Yuuri startle and flail.

He doesn’t just watch – no, he has to be _involved_ somehow.

That’s not the worst of it, though.

The worst of it is the touches.

Viktor probably doesn’t even realise he’s doing it. There’s something entirely unconscious in the conscious way his hands move, in the way he’s close with people.

But now he’s being close with Yuuri, close _to_ Yuuri, and it’s driving him _insane._

He’ll rest his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder and breathe warm against the skin of Yuuri’s throat as if it’s nothing. He’ll flop against Yuuri’s back and sag as if he’s exhausted. He’ll fling arms around Yuuri’s neck for any occasion it seems – a perfect landing, a new ice cream shop opening, a dog on the street.

But more, he’ll rest a gentle hand on Yuuri’s back, smoothing down, fingers light and just brushing Yuuri’s spine as he straightens Yuuri’s posture. He’ll place fingertips on the arch of Yuuri’s arm, lifting slightly, expression intent, eyes focused. He’ll run fingers down Yuuri’s thigh, tap his knee, push the small of his back up.

Yuuri can’t dance without Viktor’s presence, Viktor’s _touch_.

At first, it wasn’t an issue. Yuuri was still breathless with the fact that Viktor Nikiforov was _here_ , teaching him – the same Viktor that danced _Swan Lake_ , that moved through air like a bird, a _creature_ , that embodied everything of ballet.

But after a while, the stiffness in Yuuri’s posture and the tension in the line of his back can't be attributed solely to intimidation, nervousness, or anything else that one might feel in the presence of their idol.

No, Yuuri can admit, at least to himself, that he’s (embarrassingly, horrifyingly) _flustered._

There’s only so many times Viktor’s hands can fall on him and his heart jolts before a direct correlation between the two things has to be made.

It’s not as if Yuuri has never noticed how attractive Viktor is. But he’s just never been so _confronted_ with it before.

It’s like a constant slap in the face – the way Viktor’s eye shine, the way the muscles of his hands flex, the way the width of his mouth stretches, eyes crinkling and head tilting sideways in happiness whenever Yuuri does something right.

It simultaneously makes Yuuri want to do anything to make Viktor happy for the rest of his life and curl into a ball and stay there for the next few years.

And it’s turning him into an _utter disaster._

In the beginning, it didn’t bother Viktor. It was almost as if he didn’t notice – that Yuuri’s breath hitched every time came close, that he basically _flew three feet_ in the air whenever he was touched.

But it starts, slowly, quietly.

“Yuuri, do you dislike being touched?” Viktor tilted his head like a puppy, his signature whenever he’s a) confused or b) amused/happy/excited.

It’s obviously the former.

“Oh, uh, no, I –” Yuuri stuttered out. “I – I just startle easy.” He tried.

Viktor beamed, nodded, and said, “okay!”

And then,

“Yuuri, does your back hurt?”

Yuuri blinked, owlishly wide. “No?”

“Then why is it so tense?” Viktor questioned, but his finger was resting against his mouth.

Yuuri flushed and stammered out some apology.

Only now,

“Yuuri, too stiff.” Viktor’s voice is sharp at his side, and Yuuri stumbles.

“Yuuri, too fast.”

“Yuuri, too messy.”

"Yuuri. Yuuri. Yuuri.”

_Yuuri._

Yuuri gasps awake, writhing in his sheets, pulse hammering hard from the sense-memory of Viktor’s soft-rough, bare hands, the gravelly tone of his voice in Yuuri’s ear.

He blinks in the darkness, his eyes growing accustomed, and waits for his breathing to return to normal.

A dream. It was a dream.

The throbbing between his legs and the tightness in his gut don’t seem as easily persuaded.

Yuuri grits his teeth, scrubbing his eyes. He’s growing so used to Viktor’s touch that he’s starting to _imagine_ it.

Yuuri runs a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath, and tries to ignore the uncomfortable situation in his pants. _No._ He’s not going to stoop that low.

He is definitely not going to touch himself to the fantasy of Viktor Nikiforov. He most certainly isn’t sliding his hand downwards, beneath the waistband of his boxers, and he _for sure_ isn’t grasping himself in a warm hand, sighing in bliss as the tightness in his gut eases, replaced with hot, unfurling pleasure.

His alarm blares, lighting up his phone on his bedside.

Yuuri jerks, his hand flying out his pants as if he’s been caught.

He sits up, hair flat on one side and tufted up at the other, and squints down at his screen.

He has half an hour.

Yuuri groans and flops back onto his bed, flinging an arm over his eyes and willing the sensation in his groin to recede.

He takes a cold shower and clenches his jaw all the way throughout it, towelling himself down roughly, movements jerky and stiff.

Viktor is waiting in the practice room, only his arms are crossed, and he’s watching Yuuri almost – _scrutinizingly,_ gaze sharp, his eyes following Yuuri’s every step.

“Yuuri.” He begins, in a tone of voice Yuuri can’t say he’s ever heard. “I want to ask a personal question.”

Yuuri stops, feels his own head tilt in a mimic of Viktor. “Yeah, sure.”

“Have you released recently?”

It takes a while for the question to register. It takes even longer for Yuuri to make sense of it. But as soon as he does, he’s flushing ruby from head to toe, his entire face catching fire.

 _“Wh – wh–”_ he wheezes out.

“You seem awfully tense, and it’s really not good for your form.” Viktor continues, as if Yuuri isn’t having a mental breakdown. “Sometimes these things help –”

“I – I really –” Yuuri’s voice comes out in a barely audible squeak.

Punishment. It’s punishment. A cruel, cosmic irony.

“I mean we all do it, Yuuri, even I do it –”

“I don’t need–!” Yuuri squeals.

“Just the other day, in fact –”

“I–!”

“It relaxes the muscles, it regulates the heartbeat–”

Yuuri is holding both hands up fervently, because Viktor is coming _closer_ in his explanation.

“If you need time, I would be more than willing –” Viktor’s eyes are earnest and sincere.

“No, no, no –” Yuuri is babbling, backing away like a startled deer, shaking his head wildly.

“To give you privacy –”

“NO!” Yuuri shouts, booming around the empty studio.

Viktor stops.

He just stops. There’s a beat of silence, and then Viktor is sighing, shoulders slumping.

“Am I a bad coach?” He asks, not looking at Yuuri.

That throws him.

“What?” Yuuri blinks.

“I feel I’m a bad coach.” Viktor says, and his voice is so – quiet, so _unsure_ , that it sends a pang directly through Yuuri’s chest.

“No –” Yuuri starts, shaking his head.

“I’ve never coached before.” Viktor admits. “I don’t think I’m doing it properly.”

 _"No."_ Yuuri repeats, only this time he steps forward, takes Viktor by the shoulders _._ “No, Viktor, you’re incredible. I wouldn’t have the drive that I do right now if it wasn’t for you.”

Except Viktor is staring, wide-eyed and shocked.

Yuuri pulls away, retracts his hands quickly. “What?”

“This is the first time you’ve ever touched me.” Viktor tells him, eyes still wide.

Yuuri blushes to the tips of his ears. “I – I just –”

“I thought you were simply shy, but then I began to think you didn’t like physical contact.” Viktor explains, a slow beam settling over his features. “But now I know you _do.”_

Yuuri starts backing up again. “I’m not –”

But Viktor isn’t listening, his eyes shining. “I can stop holding back –”

Yuuri almost chokes on his own tongue. “Holding _back_ –” barely makes its way out his strangled throat.

“I can correct all the errors myself instead of having to watch –”

“What – when have you ever _watched_ –”

“This is perfect!” Viktor claps his hands together, delighted. “Alright, forget what I was saying.” He grins, wolfish, and gestures to the floor. “Begin.”


	6. Feel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW I'm terrible at updating, it's literally one of my worst traits, but I never abandon any fics, as seen by the notice I put on the summary. One of my biggest motivators is you guys though, so if it's taking ages, just pester me! Drop a comment and remind me that this still exists, because I can forget sometimes, and I promise I'll most likely start working on the next chapter that day.
> 
> Also, a whole lot of not very much happens in this chapter, but I can promise the actual plot will begin rolling from here on out

This must be a method of torture.

Yuuri is almost certain it is. It has to be, being assaulted by Viktor _day and night._

Viktor Nikiforov isn’t a touchy-feely person. He’s a demanding, constant _presence,_ that takes up all of Yuuri’s attention as soon he enters the room.

That might not seem as if it’s in any way Viktor’s fault, but as soon as Yuuri placed his hands on Viktor’s biceps, as soon as he _reciprocated that one time,_ even though it was just for a second, Viktor seemed to take it as express permission to put his hands all over Yuuri at all times.

Quite literally. At. All. Times.

One would think he was exaggerating if they didn’t actually know Viktor Nikiforov.

But Yuuri is slowly starting to get to know the man, and he’s slowly discovering that this is just the natural state of affairs with him.

“Yuuri, what shall we practise today?” Viktor asks, currently draped across his shoulders, head peeking around.

Yuuri can feel his warm breath on the skin of his neck. He can feel _the tip of Viktor’s nose._

Yuuri is stiff and tense. “Uh, just – up to you.” He laughs shakily. “You’re the coach.”

“But I don’t want this to be a one-way decision.” Viktor replies rationally, all the while pouting and, yes, _still all over Yuuri_. “I wish you would suggest things sometimes, it makes me feel awfully bossy.”

Yuuri swallows, and prays Viktor can’t feel his blush. “Just – I do think I need to work on my landings the most.” He says.

“Yuuri, you say this every time.” Viktor pulls away, but only to take him by the shoulders and turn him so that he’s looking into Viktor’s eyes. “You’re more self-aware than this. You know your landings are improving, but the jump itself needs work.”

Yuuri tries desperately not to let those words affect him, not to let it _show._ It’s a minor criticism, and only one intended to help him, not hurt him, but it still cuts to his very core.

Yuuri knows his jumps needs work, they need more technicality, more flair, more – _everything_ that he seems incapable of. But he’s afraid to even jump to begin with, afraid to even _try_ , less Viktor see his efforts and decide he’s not worth the bother.

Better to preform to the lowest of his abilities, to _know_ that he’s preforming to the lowest of his abilities, and have Viktor leave, rather than throw himself into ballet, throw everything he has, body and soul, and still be rejected anyways.

It hurts less, this way. Yuuri knows that from experience.

“Yuuri.” Viktor calls softly, drawing him back in. “I can tell you’re holding back, you know.” He informs, and Yuuri feels his face heat at being caught out.

“I.” He steps back, out of Viktor’s grasp. He’s tried this tactic before, but it never seems to faze Viktor. It only seems to make him _more_ determined to touch Yuuri, it only seems to add fuel to the fire.

“Let’s have lunch.” He states.

Viktor’s eyebrow ticks in surprise. “Already? It’s only twelve.”

“An early lunch.” Yuuri smiles, big and bright. “That way I’ll have energy for practise.”

Viktor blinks, pink creeping into his expression. “Alright.” He agrees.

Yuuri nods, and they’re just stepping out into the corridor when Yuuri spots Yuuko, head down as she searches inside her satchel.

Yuuri catches her by both arms and spins, making her startle and jerk her head up.

“Careful.” Yuuri says, grinning.

Yuuko is laughing instantly. “Yuuri!” She says. “What are you doing here?”

“Just practise.” Yuuri points a thumb back to the studio, and then quickly realises he hasn’t done introductions yet. “Viktor, this is my friend Nishigori Yuuko, Yuuko, this is my, uh, coach, Viktor Nikiforov.”

Yuuri turns, smiling, and almost does a double take.

Viktor is standing with his arms crossed, a stony, hard expression settled over his features.

“Um.” Yuuri tries, and Yuuko blinks between them.

“Pleasure.” Viktor states, offering a hand, but his tone of voice makes it sound anything but.

Yuuko takes it warily, and Viktor gives her a short, sharp shake before dropping her hand altogether.

Yuuri gapes, stunned.

This is not the Viktor Nikiforov that Yuuri knows. This isn’t the playful, over-eager Viktor that jumps in circles when he’s excited and smiles so wide his eyes squint.

This cold, unfamiliar man is a stranger.

“I’m sorry, we were just off to get some lunch.” Yuuri begins, but he frowns at Viktor. “It seems someone gets cranky when they haven’t eaten.”

Yuuko laughs then, relieved to have the odd, heavy tension in the air dissipated, but Viktor doesn’t say anything.

“Well, I won’t keep you.” Yuuko begins, but she gives Viktor a nervous, timid look. “Um, have fun!” She gives a little wave and then she’s off, stepping around them, but she turns back around to give Yuuri wide eyes.

Yuuri shrugs helplessly.

Viktor still has his arms crossed, jaw clenched as the stares at the side of the wall.

“Hey.” Yuuri states, irritation slowly seeping into his bloodstream. “What was that about?”

“I’m simply confused, Yuuri.” Viktor says, his voice perfectly calm and neutral, even as his eyes set on Yuuri, a steel that Yuuri has never seen burning in their depths.

“About _what?”_ Yuuri asks, frowning as he looks from where Yuuko just left to where Viktor is standing.

“I was under the impression you didn’t like physical contact, or just preferred not to touch people.” He raises one smooth eyebrow. “And yet here you are, hands all over this woman.”

Yuuri blinks. Then he blinks again, just to be sure. “Are you _insane?”_ He manages, after a minute. “Yuuko is one of my _oldest, best_ friends.”

“So I’m to take it this means it’s required to have known you for a certain length of time before anyone is able to touch you?” Viktor asks, head tilted.

Yuuri’s mouth parts, falls open, because that honestly sounds – but it’s almost as if – as though Viktor is truly –

“Are you _jealous?”_ Yuuri asks, gawking.

Viktor blinks. “Extremely.” He states, as if this is obvious.

Yuuri freezes.

His entire body stiffens, going into shock, because – because Viktor is _jealous_ of other people touching him, and –

“I’ve been trying to think of ways to make you more comfortable, only to find there is no way, other than having a past with you.” Viktor states.

Yuuri stops at that. His mind, his thoughts, all stop.

Of course. Ballet.

Viktor is talking about ballet.

“Ah.” Yuuri states.

Viktor, however, only seems to grow more annoyed at this.

“What is this Yuuko girl to you anyways?” He asks.

Yuuri almost huffs a laugh, because it’s clear Viktor is searching for a way that he might have the same ease and familiarity with Yuuri, in order to be able to correct his faults personally.

“We’ve been friends since we were children, _babies_ even.” Yuuri smiles softly. “We grew up together.”

Viktor looks away quickly, but Yuuri doesn’t miss the way a muscle in his jaw is jumping. He’s _gritting his teeth._

Yuuri frowns. “Viktor –”

“Let’s go.” Viktor states suddenly, and then he’s walking, pace brisk.

Yuuri jogs a little to catch up. “Alright. Where do you want –?”

“Anywhere.” Viktor interrupts, voice hard and cold.

Yuuri swallows. “Have I said something to offend you?” He asks, genuinely concerned.

Viktor simply shakes his head. “Nope.” He states, simple and clipped.

Yuuri feels as if saying, _it’s quite obvious you’re angry,_ or even muttering back, _alright then,_ but suddenly feels as if to say that is too – _familiar._ Too comfortable, too easy. That would be starting an argument with Viktor, starting an argument with his _coach_ , and so Yuuri bites his tongue and swallows his words.

It’s not as if he isn’t comfortable with Viktor, despite what Viktor might believe.

Because Yuuri actually is, enough now that the simple sight of Viktor doesn’t cause Yuuri’s feet to stumble and trip up. His tongue doesn’t tie itself in knots and fumble his next words, his limbs don’t tangle and flail, he’s not that awkward, star-struck boy anymore.

But the heart inside his chest still lurches, the blood in his veins still heats and rushes to his face. It’s not as if Yuuri has any control over that, it’s not as if these things are ever going to _change._

Viktor Nikiforov is and always will be Viktor Nikiforov, even if the Viktor that Yuuri knows now is vastly different to the one pinned up against his walls. Even if Yuuri himself is still reconciling those two Victors – the calmly aloof, ethereal being with the hot-headed, short-tempered, often _emotionally unstable_ man.

Still, Yuuri feels as if he’s growing used to Viktor, little by little, piece by piece.

He’s growing used to the incessant touches, the jubilant clapping whenever Yuuri does something right, the manic shout-gesturing whenever Yuuri does something wrong. He’s growing used to the handling, the interruptions, the bodily contact.

Maybe he’s overeager and overenthusiastic and oversensitive and basically _over-anything_ , but Yuuri is beginning to find he likes this new version of Viktor, he likes Viktor’s truer, more genuine self, a little roughed at the edges, imperfectly perfect.

He likes seeing Viktor early in the morning, bed-headed and still groggy, he likes Viktor's half-stifled yawns and aborted attempts at stretching. He likes Viktor as he’s eating, sauce on one corner of his mouth before he self-consciously scrubs his whole face. He likes Viktor childish and irrational, he likes him silly and playful, he likes _all of him._

Yuuri doesn’t like the Viktor he’s seeing right now.

Quiet, stiff, closed off. Obviously bothered about something, but refusing to let it show.

They sit at some café, and Viktor is silent, hands wrapped around his coffee mug, staring off to the side.

He’s clearly avoiding Yuuri.

Yuuri sighs after a minute. “What’s wrong?”

Viktor blinks at being caught out, his head turning quickly in surprise. _As if you were doing such a great job at hiding it_ , Yuuri thinks fondly.

“Nothing.” Viktor says pleasantly, but there’s still a tension to the way he’s holding himself.

Yuuri clears his throat. “You know, it doesn’t go away unless you talk about it.” He tries, fiddling with the menus, not looking up.

Viktor is quiet for some moments. Then he’s speaking.

“It bothers me.” He says. “That you’re close with others, and not with me.”

Yuuri doesn’t look up. He feels his eyes widen, but keeps them on the table, fingers frozen and stiff.

“And I’m not quite sure why.” Viktor continues, almost conversational. “It shouldn’t, not really. And it doesn’t bother me with my other students. It doesn’t actually bother me with anyone. It only seems to be you, Yuuri Katsuki, that affects me in this way.”

Yuuri is rigid where he sits, utterly still. He thinks if he moves he’ll wake up. He doesn’t dare _breathe._

Viktor isn’t talking about ballet. He can’t possibly be talking about ballet.

Their food comes, and a plate appears under Yuuri’s nose, making him startle and jerk up.

Viktor smiles at the waitress, taking his food with a nod. He lifts his panini to his mouth, but Yuuri thinks he can see a faint pink tainting Viktor’s cheeks, even as he ducks his head to eat.

Yuuri is silent, but he takes his toastie in numb hands, watching the melted cheese pull apart, staring down vacantly.

They eat in silence.

As they’re walking back, Yuuri feels as if he’s hyper-aware of everything. He imagines that Viktor’s hand brushes his, and whips around, only to find Viktor a little ahead of him.

Viktor’s eyes burn into him as he practises. Yuuri can feel them almost like a physical, hot thing, branding his skin.

Viktor is quiet all throughout. No quips, no interruptions.

The only sound is Yuuri’s soft panting, and his feet on the wooden floorboards.

Lying in bed that night, Yuuri curls up, both hands coming to press against his chest as he lies on his side, wide-awake. His heart won’t stop running in his chest, even though he stopped dancing hours ago.

Yuuri Katsuki is going to have to figure out what the hell he’s feeling, because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like idolisation anymore, and it doesn’t remotely feel like a harmless crush.

This thing feels _weighed,_ heavy and huge, big enough to scare him.


	7. Flow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is literally in response to Welcome To The Madness, which, if you haven't watched, is [ here ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E9jrKFjjLzw) (the quality isn't the best but we work with what we've got). If Otayuri wasn't considered canon, I'm pretty sure it is by now. 
> 
> So I needed this to resurrect me from the dead basically. I'm actually still not over it. Yuri on Ice keeps killing me, consistently and painfully, I swear. I need help. 
> 
> In more news, this also happens to be the longest chapter yet (welcome to the madness has only fuelled my obsession and I watch it a healthy amount of twelve times a day), so enjoy, and there will probably be more soon, because whenever I think YOI can't get any better, it just does.

Most of the time, Yuuri prefers to dance alone.

It’s quieter, calmer. He can hear himself think then, instead of hearing white noise fill his mind with the knowledge that Viktor is watching.

He can feel himself move, instead of feeling the phantom sensation of Viktor’s hands on his skin, where Viktor is only a few metres away, waiting to correct him, waiting to _touch._

Yuuri can let himself go, in a way he’s never been able to do in front of other people. Dancing on stage, dancing in a crowded studio, or even dancing in front of just one pair of eyes, Yuuri is stiff, his body awkward and unsure. He’s hyper-aware of the judgemental stares, even if they aren’t remotely judging.

It might be part of the reason that Yuuri’s never won a competition, never been accepted into one of the schools shows, but Yuuri knows that it sounds less like a reason and more like an excuse then, even to his own ears.

Everyone is stiff at first, but it’s your talent that carries you, not your confidence. Maybe both are needed, but clearly one more than the other.

So.

Yuuri prefers to dance alone.

There’s no risk of judgement. He can fail, he can fall, but it doesn’t matter. He can pick himself up and start again. He doesn’t have to flush, to stammer out an apology, to feel mortification sting his cheeks.

It’s alright, it’s just him. Nobody is watching. He’s free.

So sometimes, Yuuri rises early just to get to the studio before anyone else.

He usually meets Viktor first thing in the morning, and they practise for a few hours before Yuuri has to go to classes and Viktor has to teach.

Yuuri would practise alone by himself after school, but he’s usually exhausted and drained by then, his muscles aching, feet cramped, in desperate need of a shower, food, or a nap, but ideally all three.

And so he rises, just as the sun is peeking through, to make his quiet, practised way to the empty studio. It’s a good way to stretch his muscles, to clear his head, to _relax_ before he sees Viktor.

Sometimes Viktor will ask him to stretch anyways, but Yuuri doesn’t want to tell him why he doesn’t need to.

But it’s as Yuuri is making his way to the studio room he knows is usually empty at this time in the morning, that he hears it.

It makes him freeze, his heart clenching in fear, pulse speeding, and he presses himself to the wall.

Voices. _Laughter._

There are people in the room.

Yuuri checks the time on his phone, and blinks hard in case his eyesight is betraying him, but yup, it’s definitely six in the morning.

Definitely an hour before anything should be on today.

He frowns, curious, and peers into the room through the gap in the partly open door.

Yuuri freezes.

Otabek is leaning against a wall, arms crossed, but there’s a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, his eyes trained on somebody Yuuri can’t see.

Yuuri has never seen Otabek like this.

Otabek is their scowling, silent member of the group, leather-jacket clad with hands perpetually in his pockets, who only replies in eyebrow twitches or the occasional grunt.

“This the best you can do?” He teases, his grin fully blossoming on his face, and Yuuri stares, open-mouthed.

It’s then that the person comes into view, and Yuri Plisetsky spins, leg twirling in the air, before he jumps closer and throws a hand out to Otabek.

Who takes that hand, pulling Yuri into his side, and then Yuri grins, as wide and as unadulterated as Otabek, and then they’re dancing.

Yuuri is hidden, but his fingers are digging into the wall, his breaths coming quick, as he watches them.

There’s something so easy, so _familiar_ , in their movements.

It’s as if they’ve been doing this for a while, as if they know each other’s bodies, are so in tune with one another they know each other’s next step.

It’s playful, teasing. They’re not even practising, it could hardly be called ballet. They’re just dancing, when Otabek bends Yuri as he arches his back and lets his head fall, and then Otabek twirls him under his arm. They’re laughing, panting, and Yuri looks up at Otabek with stark, pure _joy_ in his eyes, warmth written all over his face.

And then Otabek coughs, clearing his throat, and steps backwards.

Yuri’s face falls instantly, the warmth disappearing, replaced with a hardened steel. “What?” He asks, voice flat.

“We can’t.” Otabek begins, gaze on the floor.

“Can’t what?” Yuri asks, but it’s clear they’ve had this conversation before.

Otabek simply shakes his head. “You know, Yuri, we can’t – can’t be anything more –”

“I didn’t even do anything!” Yuri defends, but Otabek shakes his head again, staring mutely at the ground.

“What, it’s written all over my face or something?” Yuri asks, scoffing, but Otabek looks up.

“Yes.” He says, and Yuri suddenly looks stricken.

He stares at Otabek, hurt obvious even from this distance, and then he huffs and turn away.

“Cool.” He states, crossing over to his bag. “If my stupid crush is so obvious, then –”

Otabek reaches out, catching his wrist. “It’s not as if I don’t feel the same –”

“But it doesn’t matter, does it?” Yuri says. “It doesn’t matter, because nothing can happen.”

“Yuri, you’re _fifteen_ –” Otabek growls, jaw clenched.

“You wanna know when it’s illegal, idiot?” Yuri spits. “When I have sex, which _I don’t want_. I just want to _be with you.”_

“Yuri –” Otabek tries, helplessly.

Yuri throws his hands up, anger radiating from here. “That’s _it._ That’s all. I just want to _date_ , and hold hands, and all that fucking PG-rated shit. It wouldn’t even make a 12 movie, the stuff I want to do.”

Otabek huffs a laugh, even as he tries to stand his ground. “Yuri, I understand that, but you don’t realise how it looks.”

Yuri stares. “So you just care about what people think of you?” He says, after a moment.

“I care about what people think of you.” Otabek hisses. “About _us,_ alright? I care when they say I’m coercing you, and then they start to take you away, stop me from seeing you and I –” Otabek swallows. “I can’t let that happen. If we wait, we can be together. We _will_ be together.”

Otabek presses their foreheads together, and Yuri closes his eyes, breathing out.

“I promise.” Otabek says, voice gruff. “You have my heart, alright?” He whispers. “It’s yours. It’s nobody else’s. And if you decide the same is true in a few years time –”

“A few years?” Yuri pulls away roughly, eyes flying open. “Just to _hold your hand?_ Just to be able to _kiss you?”_

Otabek takes a deep breath. “I understand if you don’t want to wait, that’s why I’m not tying you to me.” He says. “You’re free, Yuri, never think you aren’t. Just because I feel this way, doesn’t mean you’re obliged to feel this way as well.”

Yuri stares. “Do you honestly think I’m three?” He asks. “Do you think I can’t tell the difference between actually _loving_ someone and being forced?”

“What.” Otabek says, dumbly.

“What?” Yuri repeats, and then his eyes widen. “I – I didn’t mean –”

“Did you just say.” Otabek starts, but doesn’t continue.

“I – I just meant, like, in the grand scheme –” Yuri tries, making a jerky hand-motion as he gestures.

“You love me?” Otabek finishes.

“I – not _love_ , I meant feel strongly, or not strongly, I mean – attracted to someone, well not _just_ attracted –” Yuri babbles, cheeks hot.

Otabek steps forward, taking Yuri into his arms, big, broad hands wrapping around Yuri’s waist. “ _Yura_ , I’ve never felt this for anyone.” He confesses in a soft whisper, voice hushed. “It gets harder every day, but only because these feelings keep getting stronger.”

Yuri leans into him, nudging their noses together. “Beka.” He murmurs, just as soft.

“You know I feel the same.” Otabek begins, almost rushed. “You have to know, Yuri.”

“I know now.” Yuri chides, but he smiles. “This is all I want, by the way.” He says. “Just this.”

“We have to go soon.” Otabek begins, his voice a little rough. “Classes will be starting.”

“Okay.” Yuri exhales, a sadness in the sound. “When can I see you again?” He asks.

Otabek swallows. “Tomorrow? Here?”

Yuri strokes along Otabek’s shoulders. “It’s so long.”

Otabek chuckles. “Hardly.” He grins wide. “I think you’re turning into a sap.”

Yuri huffs, his flush darkening across his face. “Alright then.” He shrugs. “I’ll just go –”

He doesn’t get very far before Otabek catches his hand, pulling him back, but Yuri comes easily until Otabek can wrap his arms around Yuri again, only this time he tucks his face into Yuri’s neck, embracing him.

Yuri laughs, a light, happy sound, and hugs back.

“Urgh.” Otabek groans, arms tightening. “I don’t want to let go now.”

“You said yourself.” Yuri grins, one hand on the back of Otabek’s head. “We have to go.”

“I know, I know.” Otabek grumbles, and then starts to pull away, both of them heading for their backpacks.

Yuuri presses himself back against the wall, heart hammering, and then quickly realises he’ll be discovered if he stays here, so ducks into the men’s bathrooms back down the hallway.

He hears laughter as they pass, the sound of their voices floating down the corridor, but Yuuri stays there for a while afterwards, trying to process what he’s just seen.

Although it’s pretty much obvious what he’s just seen, it’s as if his mind can’t compute it.

Otabek and – _Yuri?_ Otabek is in love with _Yuri?_ Yuri Plisetsky _, Viktor’s_ Yuri, _the child prodigy_ Yuri?

And Yuri is clearly in love with him.

Something twinges in Yuuri’s chest then, something painful and bitter, and it feels almost like jealousy.

The image of Otabek and Yuri laughing, spinning carelessly in one another’s arms, pierces his mind, and Yuuri feels irrational hurt well up inside him.

Why is he _hurt?_ Because Otabek is his friend, and never even said anything? Because he’s never told anyone in the group about his feelings, his relationship? Or maybe because Otabek knows how Yuuri feels about the younger Yuri? Because Yuuri himself has ranted and raved about Viktor choosing to personally tutor Yuri, and Otabek has never even batted an eyelash?

But there’s something about the image of them dancing, something in the way they moved together, so effortless, so familiar.

Yuuri suddenly realises he’s jealous, because he wants that for himself.

It’s everything he’s ever wanted with Viktor.

In one blinding moment, Yuuri realises it’s what he’s wanted all along.

He’s never wanted Viktor to coach him. He’s never wanted Viktor to watch him dance and critique his steps, correct his faults, make him better.

Yuuri wants – has _always_ wanted – to stand beside Viktor, as an _equal_ , and to take Viktor into his arms and dance _with_ him, not for him.

He’s jealous of Otabek and Yuri, because they have everything that he doesn’t.

Yuuri stares down at the tiles of the bathroom floor for a long time, waiting until his breathing evens out.

He enters the empty studio, vacant all but for him.

Yuuri checks the time, but there’s still half an hour left. He can still get some practise in before any classes begin, before he has to meet Viktor.

He’s slow to begin with, soft.

He still needs to clear his mind, let it empty of all his thoughts, and just _flow._ But it comes, gradually, movements growing surer and surer with each passing second, his head clearing like fog from the air, the tangle of feelings inside his chest slowly loosening, the tight knots unravelling, letting him breathe a bit easier.

He doesn’t notice the time passing, doesn’t notice anybody come by, until he’s spinning and spots a figure, standing slanted and leant against the door.

Yuuri stops, feet landing hard on the ground.

Viktor is standing there, watching.

He’s just watching, although his arms aren’t crossed this time, there’s no finger at his lips. He’s just looking, a smile tugging at one corner of his lips, head tilted.

“So, this is why you’re always early.” Viktor says, but Yuuri can’t say anything. This isn’t their studio.

He just stares, numbly, as Viktor makes his way inside.

“You know, I wondered if maybe I had imagined that ethereal boy that moved like water, but I didn’t.” Viktor says. He doesn’t sound angry; his expression is still soft. “He’s still there. He just doesn’t let anyone see him.”

Yuuri blinks. “What?”

Viktor nods his head. “That, just there.” He begins. “The way you moved. You don’t move that way in practise, Yuuri. I should know, because I’ve been watching.”

Yuuri feels his mouth part as he blinks, uncomprehending.

“And I know you can.” Viktor tells him. “I’ve seen it, Yuuri.”

“I just.” Yuuri tries. “It’s really nothing –”

Viktor’s eyebrow twitches. “Nothing?” He says. “Yuuri, listen to me very carefully. What you just did, I can’t do.”

Yuuri stares, unblinking, eyes wide.

“I can’t do it.” Viktor repeats, seriously. “I’ve told you before, I’m too tied to technique. Everything I do is poised, practised. What you do, Yuuri, is something else altogether.” He says, and his eyes are far-away as he gazes at Yuuri. “It’s – effortless, _fluid._ It's water. I’ve never met anyone who can move the way you do, Yuuri.” Viktor’s eyes are intent, heated. “Never, in all my years of ballet.”

Yuuri feels something sweep through him then, a kind of shocked wonder, a hazy joy that he can’t put into words. It floors him, knocks him breathless.

“But you don’t move that way in front of people, do you?” Viktor begins. “You’re too aware of them, you can feel their eyes, am I right?” He asks. “It makes you stiffen, makes your movements tight.”

_How has he been so easy to read? How does Viktor know all this?_

“I’ve been working on the wrong problem all together.” Viktor says. “There’s nothing wrong with your jumps, your landings, your pirouettes and arabesques.” His eyes are a clear, pale blue. “The problem, I think, lies in your confidence.”

Yuuri is dumbfounded.

He can’t speak, can’t move.

He never imagined it would be so easy for Viktor to pick apart the crux of the issue, never imagined Viktor could simply take one look at him and _know._

It’s like that night all those months ago when Viktor found him, only Yuuri is thrown back there, in exactly the same spot, with exactly the same emotions.

“How.” Yuuri’s mouth moves, and then he finds himself asking, “how did you even find me?”

Viktor smiles, soft, again. “I had a feeling.” He says simply. “And I’ve learned not to ignore having a feeling, because I’ve found that it usually leads to you.”

Yuuri stares. “Viktor –” he breathes out.

Viktor grins. “Come on. Come with me.” He motions.

Yuuri frowns.

“We won’t fix the problem in here.” Viktor states. “If we want to work on your confidence, I’ll have to make you relaxed enough first, won’t I?”

Yuuri blinks, suddenly wary. “What do you mean?”

“To be able to dance in front of people,” Viktor begins, “you’ll have to be able to dance _with_ them first.” He grins. “And that’s exactly what I intend for you to do.”

Yuuri blinks. “You want me – to dance with someone?”

Viktor scoffs. “Not someone. Me.” He beams, and then he motions again.

Yuuri stares. “Dance? With – with _you?”_ This can’t be happening. It can’t be.

“Yes, Yuuri, now do come, time is running.” Viktor chides.

Yuuri, still dumbfounded, follows rather blindly.

 

*

Of everything he was expecting, Yuuri wasn’t expect this.

“Now, I know this might be seen as rather unprofessional.” Viktor begins, as he parks in his driveway, reversing back with a hand on Yuuri’s headrest. “But, I would say this is more important, wouldn’t you? The greater good, and all that.”

He gives Yuuri a flash of white teeth and a wide smile that still makes his heart jolt, every time.

Yuuri just nods, still uncomprehending.

And then Viktor is stepping out.

Yuuri does the same, opening the door and putting his feet on the gravel slowly.

He glances up, his eyes sweeping the house.

It’s not huge. Rather quaint, in Yuuri’s opinion. Although, quaint for London is still a small fortune.

But the house just sits, as houses do, small and unassuming, framed by trees on either side, with windows and doors and everything else that a house has.

Yuuri doesn’t know what he expected. Something grander, something more deserving of _Viktor Nikiforov._ A mansion, an estate, although he doesn’t know how much that would suit Viktor.

This, quiet, small, suits him just fine.

 _I could live here,_ Yuuri thinks, and then quickly squashes that thought, stamps on it like overgrown weeds.

Viktor has paused halfway up the gravel walkway, head tilted inquiringly. “Coming?” He asks, his house keys ready in his hand, one sharp metal edge poking out.

And Yuuri smiles, and nods.

Inside is much the same, but warmer.

Not just in temperature. The walls are swathed in shades of browns and reds, the wooden floorboards are decorated with rugs in the living room, all of the same colour. His couch is a simple, plain thing, leather suede with various fluffy cushions.

And then Viktor is crossing over to a small stereo sat beside the TV, and pressing a button.

A lot of his expectations are being shattered, because of all the music, in all the world, Yuuri can admit at least to himself, this has to be what he least expected.

Viktor starts to click his fingers as the song begins, a steady beat, and then words are filtering through.

_I messed up tonight_

_I lost another fight_

_I still mess up but I’ll just start again,_

“What is this?” Yuuri laughs, even though he distantly recognises it.

Viktor gasps theatrically. “Zootopia!” He cries. “Have you never seen it?”

“No!” Yuuri shouts back, still laughing.

He’d expected classical music, instrumental music, something to do ballet to.

Not – _this._

“Come on!” Viktor cries, motioning. “Dance!”

Yuuri just shakes his head, and sways his hips a little timidly as Viktor approaches.

_I keep falling down_

_I keep on hitting the ground_

_But I always get up now to see what’s next_

Viktor is dancing unselfconsciously, unreservedly, and it’s – it’s _terrible,_ it’s truly awful.

He swings his hips and waves his arms and Yuuri suddenly realises he isn’t _trying_ to be good, he isn’t focusing on his movements or worrying about the placement of his feet, he’s just dancing, because he wants Yuuri to do the same.

_Birds don’t just fly, they fall down and get up_

_Nobody learns without getting it wrong_

Yuuri laughs, a sharp, short bark, abruptly _hearing_ the words, hearing their meaning, and he sees Viktor grinning, his eyes trained on Yuuri as he continues to dance.

_I won’t give up, no I won’t give in_

_Until I reach the end, and then I’ll start again_

_No, I won’t leave, I wanna try everything_

_I wanna try even though I could fail_

Yuuri reaches out, catches Viktor by the wrist, and yanks him into his side.

Viktor gasps, cheeks heating up instantly, his ears bleeding red as his mouth parts, but Yuuri just laughs, shaking his head, and spins him underneath his arm.

Viktor grins back, a slow, unfurling thing, his eyes bright and glinting, and then he’s taking Yuuri’s hands and dancing with him.

_Look how far you’ve come, you filled your heart with love_

_Maybe you’ve done enough, take a deep breath,_

_Don’t beat yourself up, don’t need to run so fast_

_Sometimes we come last, but we did our best_

They’re fumbling, stumbling, and nobody is even leading, nobody is _control,_ but Yuuri finds he doesn’t even care, as their feet tangle and trip over one another, because he has Viktor in his arms, laughing, breathless and giddy, silver hair falling over his brow and legs buckling at odd moments when Yuuri stands on his feet, but Yuuri just catches him, holds him tighter.

Yuuri has imagined dancing with Viktor Nikiforov, probably over a thousand times.

Has fantasied about it being something graceful, beautiful, effortless. Has imagined it on all the stages across the world, imagined lifting Viktor with ease, imagined the poise, the precision, with which they’ll dance together.

This – awkward, unpractised, imperfect stumbling, dancing to some pop tune in Viktor’s living room as they spin like kids and trip over one another’s feet.

This is better. 

“I won’t give up, no I won’t give in!” Yuuri sings, just as badly as their dancing, and Viktor is laughing, laughing so hard he starts to wheeze. “Till I reach the end, then I’ll start again!” He screeches, at the top of his lungs.

Viktor bends, shaking his head as he laughs, his whole face stretched with it, eyes wet and streaming. But they’re still dancing, and so Yuuri takes control, wrapping an arm around Viktor’s waist and dancing them all around the living room, behind the couch and all the way around it.

Viktor just laughs the whole time, the sound big and loud and booming, shaking in his chest.

 _I love you_ , Yuuri thinks, like the soft flow of water over rocks, gentle and silent. He doesn’t squash it, doesn’t push it down, because he _can’t._

It’s a current, a current that just keeps flowing, unstoppable in its force, and every spin is _I love you,_ every crinkled-eyed beam is _I love you,_ every laugh is _I love you._

Yuuri watches Viktor Nikiforov stumble and flail and thinks to him, after each footstep, _I love you, I love you, I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please talk to me about Welcome To The Madness, Yuri on Ice, and anything pertaining to those two things. I'm screaming into the void at the moment 
> 
> Also, I hope people realise that Yuuri 'being able to dance like water' means him being able to dance in front of others, as he can already move like water, in Viktor's eyes, but needs the confidence to do it with people watching. Sorry if that was implicit rather than explicit! I hope the summary makes sense now.
> 
> Also, I hope you appreciate the reference to Zootopia, I do love that moive but we all know what should have won best animation, ammaright? *waggles eyebrows*


	8. Observe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow am I terrible at updating, it has now been a full month since the last chapter which is ... bad. Very bad. I wish I could be more frequent, because this story is not abandoned! I have many ideas and I love it, but I just forget. I've also been working on a kidfic series that many people seem to enjoy, and I have to admit, I'm a sucker for kidfics. 
> 
> However, I have this one plotted out, I know where its going and know how I want to end it, so expect more updates, hopefully in less than a month.

“So, let me get this straight.” Yuuko starts, one long finger held up. “You went back to Viktor’s house –”

“Go Yuuri!” Phichit whoops.

“It’s really not how it –” Yuuri tries.

“And you. Danced?” She finishes with.

“It’s – we didn’t. It’s more.” Yuuri fumbles, squinting as he tries to find the words. “Like. We basically.”

“You danced.” Yuuko states. “You left a _ballet studio_ , to go back to _his house,_ and dance.”

Yuuri tilts his head, grimacing. “Well –”

“You honestly don’t expect us to believe nothing happened.” Yuuko says.

“Nothing. Happened!” Yuuri repeats, for probably the thousandth time.

Phichit gives him a deadpan look, eyebrows raised, eyes flat lidded. “You do remember I came home once to find Viktor asleep on the couch.”

Yuuko’s mouth falls open as the round wide eyes on Yuuri, but Yuuri holds hands up. “That was nothing! That was – he came to ask me to be his _student!_ It’s not – ”

“I’m pretty sure he didn’t go back to Yuri’s flat to ask him!” Yuuko shouts, and then she frowns, waves a hand. “You know, the other Yuri –”

“Can you not call him that?” Otabek asks.

The whole table goes silent.

This is the first time Otabek has spoken today, other than his familiar, noncommittal grunts and wordless hums that only really _suggest_ he’s listening but don’t prove it.

Yuuko blinks. “What?”

“The other Yuri.” Otabek says, and looks straight at Yuuko. “It just – makes him sound like some alien.”

Yuuko is frozen like a deer in headlights, eyes startled and wide, body stiff. “I – I didn’t mean –”

Another thing about Yuuko. She doesn’t do well with confrontation.

“Well, I mean, what else do we call him?” Yuuri laughs, trying to ease some of the tension. “The second Yuri?”

“Yuri _o?”_ Phichit adds, jostling Otabek with an elbow.

“Just Yuri is fine.” Otabek answers.

Phichit raises his eyebrows. “But we already have a Yuuri. Having two just gets confusing.”

Otabek shrugs. “We all know who you’re talking about anyway.”

“But what if, at one point, I’m talking about Yuuri, and you think I mean the o– _Yuri,_ and– see it gets confusing!” Phichit waves his hands in the air.

“It’s fine.” Yuuri interrupts, and everyone glances toward him. Yuuri swallows, and tries on a smile. “We’ll just have two Yuri’s.”

He aims his grin at Otabek, but it seems to fall flat, because all he receives is a flat-lidded stare.

Yuuri bristles. He’s trying to ease the tension and make everyone drop the subject. Some thanks he gets.

Yuuri can’t help but bring up the image of Otabek’s face, smiling and relaxed, _easy_ when dancing with Yuri, and put it in contrast with this one.

Then he remembers, abruptly, the argument Yuri and Otabek were having.

Trouble in paradise? Yuuri wonders, and he thinks he’s probably hit the nail on the head, from the hunched-in way Otabek’s shoulders are sitting, his posture tense and rigid.

“Getting away from the point anyway.” Yuuko, mercifully, begins, until Yuuri actually _remembers what the point was._

“The point is, Viktor Nikiforov took Yuuri to his house, when he’s never taken _anyone_ back to his house, student, teacher –”

“Okay, you’re making it sound seedy.” Yuuri says, chest oddly hot and tight with defensiveness. _Protectiveness_. “It’s not as if he took me back to his _lair.”_

 _“Hooo,_ Yuuri.” Phichit fans himself.

Yuuri feels his cheeks flush. “I just mean – it’s not that big a deal, okay? Sometimes I get anxious when people watch me dance, so Viktor suggested a more – casual environment, that might help me loosen up, instead of focusing on my every move. He just wanted me to have fun with ballet, and I did, for the first time in years.”

Everyone is staring.

“Holy shit.” Phichit states.

Yuuri flushes harder, opening his mouth, until Phichit goes on to say, “Viktor Nikiforov is in love with Yuuri.”

Yuuri blinks.

“I can’t believe it.” Yuuko states, as if she agrees.

“Wh – no he’s not!” Yuuri leans forward and hisses, lest people hear them.

“He’s totally in love with you dude.” Phichit insists. “That is like – love levels to the max.”

Yuuri’s cheeks are _stinging_ they’re so hot, and he’s pretty sure steam is going to start coming out his ears at any moment. “It’s – not –” he stutters.

“Hold shit.” Phichit starts again, as if in revelation. “Yuuri’s in love with Viktor Nikiforov.”

 _“Phichit!”_ Yuuri hisses louder this time, but Yuuko only squeals, drawing more attention to them.

“You so are.” Phichit says, stunned, but Yuuri is glancing around, because it would just be his luck for Viktor Nikiforov to appear at this very moment.

“Phichit, please stop.” Yuuri tries, and he can hear the desperation in his voice. “I’m serious.”

Phichit looks as if he could continue, mouth opened around a smile, but as soon as he catches sight of Yuuri’s expression, a little bit frantic and a little bit frazzled, he pauses, stalling with his next words.

“Okay.” Phichit says, and holds up his hands. “Alright. I better be invited to the wedding, though.” He points a finger, and Yuuri lets out a nervous laugh. It’s weak to anyone’s ears, but thankfully, everyone ignores it and moves on.

Yuuri catches Otabek watching him, though, in moments he thinks Yuuri isn’t looking. But Yuuri sees, and he wonders what Otabek is looking for.

 

*

“Ready?” Viktor claps his hands together, face bright and exuberant with his beam, and Yuuri.

Swallows.

Viktor sags. “Yuuri, we’ve spoke about this. You’re getting wound up again.”

“I can’t help it!” Yuuri snaps, already _wound up_ to a painful degree from this morning’s conversation. “I don’t do it deliberately! It just happens.”

“Yuuri, Yuuri, relax.” Viktor comes closer and takes both his shoulders, turning him so he’s looking right into Viktor’s clear, pale eyes.

Yuuri feels his cheeks again, although it’s not from embarrassment

Viktor takes a long indrawn breath, letting it out slowly, eyes watching Yuuri.

Yuuri unconsciously mimics, and feels the tight vice around his chest loosens, gradually.

“See?” Viktor murmurs, and he’s still so close, _too close,_ close enough for Yuuri to be able to feel the heat of his breath, a warm wash of feeling, see the light dusting of pale freckles across his nose, dotting his face like soft constellations astronomers have studied, searched for.

Yuuri can only nod, his tongue hot and heavy in his mouth, palms sweaty and warm.

“Yuuri, I know you can do this.” Viktor tells him, and suddenly, Yuuri’s chin is being held by cool, slender fingers against his hot skin as Viktor pulls his gaze and draws it toward him.

“Okay? I _know_ you have it inside of you, I’ve _seen_ it.” Viktor tells him, and Yuuri’s breath catches in his throat, tangled and choked.

He doesn’t exhale, simply holds his breath as Viktor continues.

“It might not be something many people have seen, but I know it’s there Yuuri.” Viktor murmurs, his voice soft and skating over Yuuri. “You don’t have to show the whole world. But if you can show me, it’s a start. Do you think you can do that Yuuri?”

Yuuri is breathless, and he swallows audibly, his throat constricting around it. He can only manage a weak nod, a barely-there movement of his head.

“You do?” Viktor asks, and Yuuri is wide-eyed and open-mouthed, simply staring in awe.

“Alright.” Viktor smiles, easy as that, and then he takes a step back, and Yuuri.

Yuuri blinks. He looks at Viktor, thrown, and Viktor simply grins wide.

“Yuuri.” Viktor clears his throat, and his smile goes tight around the edges. “Have you been physical with anyone recently?”

“What?” Yuuri bursts out with. _“NO!”_

There’s a beat of silence.

“Oh.” Viktor states. “Ever?” He asks.

“Wh – Viktor, _what_ does this have to do with ballet?” Yuuri huffs, the moment between them thoroughly broken.

“As I’ve said, physical release can often help relax –”

“Not every ballet dancer uses sex to relax!” Yuuri shouts, waving his arms wildly. _“You might,_ okay, but not all of us do! Sometimes, we – watch movies! Or just _sleep!”_

Viktor is staring, and Yuuri is flushed beetroot from head-to-toe, but he stands his ground, because he’s sick of being reminded of Viktor’s casual conquests. He’s just _sick_ of it.

Viktor blinks, and then his head falls to the side. “Yuuri, are you jealous?”

Yuuri huffs. Then he clenches his jaw, grits his teeth, and starts walking. “You know what, I don’t need –”

He’s halfway past before Viktor catches his wrist and pulls him back, and Yuuri finds himself flowing, unable to stop himself, until he almost collides into Viktor’s broad chest. He manages to halt his feet, and falls just short of it, staring up at Viktor.

“Yuuri, we still have practise.” It can’t be Yuuri’s imagination that Viktor’s voice has lowered, rough and croaky.

Yuuri swallows, simply staring up at Viktor. His chest is heaving, and the only sound for a moment is his harsh breaths, their gazes holding one another.

And then Viktor steps back again, and coughs. “Well, anyway. I’m simply asking because I have. A rather unorthodox idea for how you might gain some confidence.”

Yuuri blinks. “Okay.” He says.

Viktor looks away, and it can’t be Yuuri’s imagination that his cheeks are tainted with a faint pink. “It’s – it really only came to me today, and it’s rather experimental, a way for you to fully make yourself vulnerable and free so in that sense, nothing else will intimidate you –”

Already, dread is forming in Yuuri’s gut. “Okay.” He says slowly.

“It’s – really only an idea, honestly –”

“Viktor, what is it?” Yuuri asks.

“Dance naked.” Viktor states, and then clears his throat. “In front of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hoo Viktor, subtle there.


	9. Expose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! Wow, I bet you guys thought i had disappeared off the face of the planet. But nope! You're all still stuck with me.
> 
> Health and other such things have been a little crazy at the moment - in truth, I'm pretty much on the cusp of getting surgery for my Crohn's Disease, it's virtually been decided, I'm just in limbo at the moment waiting for a date. Also, I started back uni and as always, it's been a bit hectic, despite getting all the necessary extensions for my assignments. 
> 
> I've also been working on my original novel! I've done this on a few of my other fics, and it always seems to be successful, so I'm just putting it out there - I'm open for beta readers of all age and calibre, experience doesn't matter, I would just love opinions of readers. 
> 
> So, if anyone likes my writing, and would be quite interested in reading about two foster boys, one who goes off to drama school and falls for another boy, and one who works part-time and falls for a girl, then hit me up! My email is balchatri00@gmail.com <33 (that's it btw, that's the novel, it's like one of those crappy reads at an airport, there's no dystopian other world or anything unfortunately)

Yuuri doesn't do anything for a long time. A long, long time.

"Yuuri?" Viktor asks. His voice is a bare croak. "I - if the idea makes you uncomfortable at all -"

"Are you making fun of me?" Yuuri asks. He's not moving, frozen where he stands, but his blood simmers underneath his skin with barely restrained anger, making him shake on the spot. "Is this a joke?"

Viktor looks aghast. His face pales, and his jaw works for a moment before he's able to produce words. _"_ _No!"_ He cries, as if the idea is abhorrent.

Yuuri doesn't do anything. Surely, this isn't happening. "Dance. Naked?" He grits out.

Abruptly, the colour that had left Viktor's cheeks at Yuuri's words returns tenfold, staining his cheeks bright, making his face glow. "Really, it's only -"

"Are you _insane?"_ Yuuri booms. "What kind of suggestion is that? How is _that_ supposed to help _anything?"_ He waves an arm out, throwing his hand in the air and wind milling it around.

Viktor stammers, utterly flustered and totally flabbergasted, and just seems at such a loss that Yuuri eventually realises he's physically _unable_ to reply.

"Viktor, how - how would that even _work?"_ He carries on, and a sudden flash of images assault Yuuri, of - of Yuuri, dancing _naked_ , in front of Viktor, of all of his skin totally on display -

Yuuri has to supress the shudder of absolute horror at the thought.

He apparently doesn't supress it as well as he had hoped, because suddenly, Viktor's expression hardens, the mortification replaced with something else, something almost - _angry._

"The idea is not totally _ludicrous_ , Yuuri, haven't you heard the old saying to - how does it go, _'imagine the audience naked?'"_ Viktor waves a hand in a similar act to Yuuri's. "It's an _exercise,_ meant to relax you, if you're naked then you have nothing else to fear. I know you must have tried imagining your audience in their underwear a hundred times and found it hasn't worked, I simply thought - well, if the _opposite_ were true, if he were as totally exposed as he _feels,_ he might find it's not truly as bad as it seems. He might even be able to dance in front of anyone afterwards."

There's some strange, absurd logic to it, despite the utter _absurdity_ of it all. Trust Viktor, to make sense of anything. 

"And of course, I don't mean utterly _naked,_ you can wear _underwear_ Yuuri, truly, what do you take me for -" Viktor is babbling by this point, his mouth running a mile a minute.

"I'll do it." Yuuri states.

Viktor stops. His mouth hangs open mid-sentence, and he simply stares at Yuuri.

"I'll do it." Yuuri repeats. He's tried everything, _they've_ tried everything, and if this is the one thing that could unlock some confidence in Yuuri, could somehow finally give him the ability to _dance_ in front of people, he'll do it.

Even if it does mean dancing in front of Viktor - dancing, naked, in front of the love of his life, lifelong idol, and current ballet coach.

This answer seems to startle Viktor. "You - really?"

Yuuri feels his face heating, a burst of colour. "It was _your idea,_ Viktor, if you're backing out now -"

"No, no!" Viktor is quick to reassure, although he's still so oddly flustered. "No, of course, yes, I." Viktor shakes his head, seemingly aware he isn't making much sense.

"I have one condition." Yuuri begins.

Viktor blinks, waiting.

"You have to be naked too."

Viktor doesn't do anything. He simply stands there, dumbstruck, before he's spluttering.

"I - Yuuri, that's surely not necessary -"

"Imagine the audience naked, didn't you say?" Yuuri raises an eyebrow, and feels something playful spike sharply in his gut as he watches Viktor grow more and more flustered. "You can wear underwear, Viktor." He grins. "What do you take me for?"

Viktor's face is the reddest he's ever seen it. "Yuuri, if we are to do this, I want you to take it _seriously,_ I really don't see what my being _naked_ will achieve -"

"To help me relax!" Yuuri laughs. He feels oddly giddy of a sudden, feels excited with the thought of seeing Viktor naked - seeing him as flustered and as flushed as this, only with much less clothing, the lean, corded muscles of his shoulders and the bare skin of his stomach all on display, all for Yuuri's eyes to look at and drink in - 

"I - I don't think it's such a good idea." Viktor begins. 

Yuuri is thrown. "But you - Viktor it was _your_ suggestion!" He tries, incredulous.

"Yes, well, I'm suddenly seeing all the errors in my plan." Viktor tells him. "I - it's extremely unprofessional, for one, and for us both to be - _indisposed,_ in such a way, really it was only a suggestion, Yuuri, I simply want you to worry less, to see that - expressing yourself through movement is not scary, and I - no, it's not -"

"But I want to." Yuuri says, and that seems to stop Viktor short. 

"I want to." He says again. "I - I don't much _like_ the idea, Viktor, but it's something. It's new. I've never tried it before, and I." He feels the flush on his face darkening. "And there's nobody I trust more to try it with than you."

Viktor's eyes are clear and wide, holding his gaze. 

"Alright." He says.

"Yes?" Yuuri's eyebrows tick upwards.

Viktor scrubs a hand over his face, and then throws his hand out. "Yes! Why not!"

Yuuri laughs, out of relief or nerves or something else, he doesn't know, but it seems to ease some of the tension.

"Where?" He asks, and glances around at the windows scaling the entire walls of the ballet studio. "This isn't - exactly the best place -"

"Well." Viktor scratches the back of his neck. "I was. _Going_ to suggest - I mean, if it makes you uncomfortable in any way Yuuri, please just say, that wasn't my intention at all, and I want you to know nothing untoward of the sorts will-"

"Where?" Yuuri cuts him off.

Viktor meets his gaze sheepishly. "My place?"

A frisson of heat passes through Yuuri; a dark, unfurling desire coils his belly tight. "Alright." He states. He hopes the deepening of his voice can be attributed to nerves, and nothing else. 

Viktor's eyes seem to darken then, the blue of them seeping into an almost murky black, but then he blinks and it's dispelled.

Yuuri is starting to imagine things, with how strongly he craves Viktor.

"Shall we go now?" Viktor asks. His voice catches, and he clears his throat before giving Yuuri a wide beam.

Yuuri can only nod.

 

*

The drive is silent.

Yuuri feels as if his whole body is one long live-wire, just on the cusp of being set alight. Crackles of electricity run along his spine, making him restless, jittery. 

Viktor is no different. His fingers tap the steering wheel, his knee bounces as he drives. Yuuri tries not to glance across, to be obvious in his staring, but he finds his eyes drawn to Viktor's fidgeting, unable to tear his gaze away.

It's not a long journey. As soon as they're there, Viktor jumps out, and Yuuri follows quietly behind.

His fingers fumble with the keys. Its as if they've both regressed to schoolboys, nerves winding their skin too tight and making them unable to communicate. Yuuri huffs a breath of laughter, and when Viktor's eyes shoot to him quickly, he takes the keys from Viktor's clumsy fingers and pushes them in the lock.

Viktor smiles, abashed and embarrassed, and it's suddenly so endearing in that moment that Yuuri has to resist leaning over and presses a kiss to his hot cheek.

"Alright." Viktor begins as he steps inside his house, and claps his hands. "I - do you want me to? Just? Will I - I can strip here if you want, I'll just -" Viktor's hands suddenly go to the edge of his shirt quickly, as if to pull it off, and Yuuri waves his hands wildly.

"No, I -" _wait,_ he's about to cry.

But then, why wait? Wouldn't that just look _odd?_ It's not as if Viktor is dancing, he's only watching, so it really doesn't matter when he does get - _undressed._

But Yuuri suddenly doesn't feel ready; he wants to savour the moment, he wants it to be slow and gentle, and not quick and rough. Not a simple shrugging off of his shirt.

 _He's only taking off his shirt, he isn't taking off **yours,**_ Yuuri tells himself, but it doesn't change anything. It doesn't change the fact he wants Viktor to take his time.

Viktor seems to notice, because his hand stills. "You can still change your mind at any time, Yuuri." He states, blue eyes clear and sincere. "And if. If _you_ want to remain dressed, and for me to simply - take off my clothes, so to speak." He huffs, and swallows. "Then again, that's fine, Yuuri. It's your call." He holds Yuuri's gaze. "I just want this to help you."

Yuuri shakes his head, and squares his jaw. "No. I want to do it." He's been cowardly enough. He wants to do this. If - by some miracle - Yuuri can dance in front of Viktor without any clothes on, save for the tight briefs he's wearing, and it could change something about his ballet, about the way he _preforms_ in front of people, then the embarrassment will have been worth it. he knows it will have been worth it.

He needs to do this. Even if just to discover that it doesn't work. At least he'll have _tried._ At least, for once, Yuuri will have _done something._

Viktor nods, and swallows hard. "Alright. Well. However you - want to do it." He waves hands down at himself. "Do you want me to." He finishes awkwardly, trailing off as if awaiting direction.

Yuuri clears his throat. He nods, once, a short tip of his head.

Viktor seems to take this as his cue, but instead of reaching for his shirt, he lifts a leg and takes off his shoes. 

Yuuri feels a grin blossoming across the sides of his face, until Viktor holds up one of his loafers and throws it off to the side.

He laughs, and then Viktor's expression softens before he takes off his other shoe.

"Well." He states, and then peels off both socks.

Yuuri has never seen Viktor's bare feet. It seems odd, in that moment, that Yuuri should be concerned about the fact he's never seen Viktor's _bare feet,_ but there it is. 

The arch of Viktor's foot is graceful, curved, his toes long and perfectly proportioned, nails neat and clipped. They're probably the most attractive feet Yuuri has ever seen.

 _Of course they are, they're Viktor's,_ Yuuri thinks fiercely. _He's a ballet prodigy, he does all the dancing with his feet._

Despite that, Yuuri knows his own feet are littered with bruises and scars, knows his toes are all bent out of shape and strange looking. Anyone looking at his feet would, at best, be mildly concerned about his health. At worst - well, it's not wholly improbable some might rear back in repulsion.

"Yuuri?" Viktor calls, and Yuuri is drawn out of his trance. He blinks, and glances up, and finds Viktor's curious gaze on him.

Yuuri feels his cheeks heat again. "Sorry, I." He waves a hand. _You have lovely feet,_ isn't the most subtle reply. "Lost in thought."

Viktor smiles, soft, and then his hands go to the hem of his shirt.

It's just a t-shirt, just plain, threadbare cotton, the kind that Viktor always wears to practise, but he pulls it off in one smooth motion, and then he's bare-chested.

Yuuri feels as if he's been kicked in the gut.

He stares, unable to help himself, at the long lines of Viktor Nikiforov's chest, the hard outline of his abdominal muscles. Yuuri trails his eyes upwards around the dusky pink nipples, pebbled a little with the cold, two small points of colour on an otherwise flawless, flat chest.

There's no hair, it's all smooth, unblemished skin, apart from the small cluster of moles by his collarbone, a smattering of brown near his throat. But then Yuuri's gaze is sliding lower again, down the ripples of Viktor's abs and to the light trail of downy hair below his bellybutton, that disappears into the waistline of his jeans. It looks soft, fuzzy.

Yuuri's mouth is dry. He feels lightheaded, staring at the vision before him.

Viktor's cheeks are _scarlet,_ glowing so furiously Yuuri can almost feel where the heat radiates off his face. He stands there, holding his t-shirt in both hands, fiddling with the material with his long fingers, as if unsure of what to do.

"I - do you want me to keep going?" He asks, and his voice is rough. He only meets Yuuri's eyes for a brief second, before he casts his gaze away again.

 _God yes,_ Yuuri wants to say. _Keep going and don't ever stop, shed every layer you've got on and bare yourself, wholly, completely, let me be the one to see your body and only me, only **ever** me,_ but it wars with another voice inside his head, the one that says, _no, please stop, I don't think I can handle much more, please have mercy._

Viktor takes Yuuri's silence as admission, and so then he starts on the zip of his jeans.

The entire lining of Yuuri's oesophagus dries up.

Viktor doesn't waste any time - simply slips the waistband down his hips and shuffles out of them, pulling his legs from the denim. There's no momentum, no climax; he just shrugs his trousers off, shucking them quick and fast the same way he probably does every day.

And then Viktor stands, bare-chested, trouserless, wearing nothing but a pair of soft grey boxer-briefs.

Yuuri's eyes travel Viktor's whole body; from the supple flesh of his thighs, the light, white-blonde hairs that line the smooth skin there, the whipcord muscles that roll underneath, to the jutting bones of his hips, the sharp line of his pelvis that draws the eye downwards to his navel; the thicker path of hair that darkens to an almost golden, wiry and course, unlike the silvery stands that fall across his face.

But then Yuuri's eyes are sliding down even further, down to the just-visible bulge at the front of Viktor's briefs, the way it stretches the worn material, the way the hem of his boxers rides up his thigh, revealing the tan lines where his skin has been less exposed to the sun. 

It feels as if Yuuri's eyes can't take in enough - his brain can't quite process all this new information in order to store it away, in order to memorise it, utterly and completely. He wants to stand there for a year, an _age_ , he wants to take a picture, photograph every sinew and curve of Viktor's body, remember every inch, every detail; every tiny mole and freckle, every strand of soft downy hair, every square centimetre of Viktor's skin.

"Yuuri." Viktor begins. His voice is dark, cheeks still hot, but his gaze is focused. "It's your turn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohhh, what's gonna happen? :O
> 
> Again, anyone interested in reading some of my original novel, feel free to email - balchatri00@gmail.com!
> 
> Also, I want people to know I'm aware that this is a totally fantastical situation in fantasy land - in real life, Viktor would very much be fired, despite all his innocent intentions, and despite the fact both parties are of age! Because there's a certain 'position of authority' that can't be abused.


	10. Collide

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes. YES. It me. Back from the dead. Wow, how long has it been?
> 
> I had to split this chapter into two parts because it was climbing up to 5K, and that's just no length for a chapter in mine own eyes. HOWEVER, I am so sorry about the crappy cliffhanging end, which you will understand shortly. I hate cliffhanger endings, although I've utilised them a lot in this fic, but this is THE LAST. I promise.
> 
> Also, please take this situation with a grain of salt. This is a flight of my very own fantasy; never a situation that would happen, or should happen. I do want people to know that. Of course, Yuuri and Viktor are consenting adults and both lub one another berry berry much, and this is just a silly idea of theirs, however, in real life, Viktor is so fired. He is astronomical levels of fired. 
> 
> Sometimes fiction can recreate and recapture reality. This is not one of those times.

Yuuri can’t believe that his only worry about this entire situation was the fact it might be a _joke_.

Because it’s almost _laughable_ , now, that this was his only worry.

Because Viktor Nikiforov, his idol, his teacher, his inspiration and current obsession, also very probably love of his life, is stood in front of him, wearing only a pair of threadbare grey briefs and a nervous expression.

If Yuuri wasn’t _already_ undone, the simple image would have been his complete and utter undoing.

“Yuuri.” Suddenly the nervous expression disappears, replaced with it a heated look of determination. “Did you hear me? Your turn.”

Yuuri imagines backing out.

Opens his mouth, composes the words; _uh, no, actually I don't feel like it anymore._ But it’s already too late; Viktor is already standing here virtually naked, there’s no going back now.

Viktor completed his side of the deal. He went through with his end.

Yuuri has to hold up his promise too.

An ashy, bitter taste stings the roof of his mouth. _And wouldn't it just be typical of you to back out at this point? Isn't that **so** Katsuki Yuuri, always chickening-out at the very last minute, never gathering the nerve or the steel to go through with anything._

Yuuri grits his teeth, clenches his jaw. He needs to do this.

Whether it amounts to anything; whether it even achieves anything different to practise or exercise or the years of stagnant ballet Yuuri has been performing; whether it makes Viktor magically _less_ attracted to him than he is now, which is to say, _negative attraction_ , whether Yuuri is as toned, sculpted or anywhere _near_ as beautiful as Viktor Nikiforov, he needs to do this.

It seems absurd, suddenly. He’s stripping off his clothes in order to gain a little confidence. Every cell inside his body is screaming that this will have the opposite effect, that Viktor will be _less inclined_ to teach him after seeing him only in boxers, and yet isn't that the problem?

Isn't that idea, that _thought_ , precisely the thing that stands in Yuuri's way – that stands between him and the stage, between his love for ballet and his ability to _be_ a ballet dancer.

_This will work. It has to work._

Yuuri rolls his shoulders, straightens his spine, and shucks off his t-shirt. He sheds is easily; a snake shedding skin, simply pulling the hem with both arms upwards, letting it fall.

Viktor looks stunned, as if surprised Yuuri actually did it. Yuuri, if he knew himself, would be surprised as well.

He almost _is_ surprised.

Yuuri ignores it. Is Viktor stunned that his physique doesn't exactly match up to that of a pro-dancer's? All Yuuri can feel, all he’s even _aware of,_ is the slight pudginess around his middle, the distinct lack of chiselled muscle that one would expect to find there, all the ways his body curves where it should be flat. But he ignores it, just _ignore it,_ clamps his jaw further, so hard he's sure he's grinding his teeth, and starts on his trousers.

He undoes the belt quick, tries to shake the odd tremor to his fingers as he does, hoping that Viktor can’t see it. Yuuri tugs at the ends of his trouser-legs, nearly hopping abou in the process, and thinks, _how on earth do people perform a strip-tease_? _Don't they just trip over a sock and die? Don't people hate being watched so much so that it makes their skin crawl and they end up doing **up** the buttons of their shirt instead of down?_

Because Viktor is watching, intent gaze focused solely on Yuuri, but it's alright, it's _okay,_ he isn't judging, he isn't coming up with any horrible, nasty conclusions in his head, he's just _watching_ , because this is what they agreed on, this is what Yuuri needs to practise.

_Being watched._

And so, Yuuri takes off both his socks and the last shred left of any dignity, before he lifts his head up to meet Viktor's stare, telling him in so few words, _I'm ready. It's alright. I can do this._

Viktor looks slightly agape and more than a little dumbstruck, an odd mixture of speechlessness that seems to want to say so many things all at the same time, and a shock that says nothing at all, before he nods, one sharp tip of his head, and goes to sit on the couch.

It's not that far from the hallway that they were standing in, but Viktor sprints as if it's somehow miles away.

Yuuri enters after him, a little stilted and unsure.

Viktor is already sitting on the couch when Yuuri comes in, and he crosses his legs into a basket before he pulls a pillow over onto his lap.

Damn, Yuuri forgot. He must have been getting cold.

He's been semi-naked for longer than Yuuri, and he's probably beginning to feel a bit exposed by now. And also, more than a bit awkward.

They were both just standing there in their boxers for a solid minute. Poor Viktor; he's only trying to give Yuuri a lesson in self-confidence, and not be half-naked in the same company of one of his students, who is also ... half-naked...

 _Geez_ , Yuuri has been so focused on how this would make him feel, he's hardly spared a thought of how _Viktor_ would feel. After all, originally all Viktor wanted was for Yuuri to perform in his underwear; feel that sense of exposure that he does anytime he performs in front of people and find a way to _work_ with it; use it, familiarise himself with it, mould it into something Yuuri can dance with.

And now Yuuri's gone and made everything _awkward_ by insisting Viktor undress himself as well, and Viktor probably feels the levels of unprofessional this situation really is.

"Alright." Viktor throws him a beam as he bends to press the stereo on, trying to recapture some sense of normality. A soft instrumental thing filters through; something that they've been practising with in the studio.

Viktor must have brought the CD's home himself. Yuuri wonders if Viktor listens to them sometimes by himself; wonders if some music reminds Viktor of Yuuri, in the same way that most, if not _all_ , music makes Yuuri think of Viktor.

Yuuri smiles, lets it spread across his face. He closes his eyes, takes a breath in, and then releases the tension from his body, seeping out of his muscles and falling away; dissipating into the air like dust. He relaxes completely, exhales out all the worry and the stress and everything that holds him back every day. That tells him he's not good enough, he'll _never_ be good enough. That pushed him past the brink of quitting, pushed him off the edge that Yuuri has been standing on his whole life and tumbling down into the dark abyss.

The voice that truly made him believe he _needed_ to quit, for everyone around him as well as himself.

He lets it go, let’s all of it go, just in order to dance in front of the one person that rushed toward him at that cliff's edge; who ran as fast as legs could possibly charge, gripped a hand in the back of his jacket, and yanked Yuuri away.

The one person who believed in Yuuri so forcefully that he forced Yuuri to believe in himself.

Yuuri shakes himself out a little, loosening up, and then stretches his arms out, extends the length.

And then he's dancing.

He spins, once, before simply letting the music guide him, letting it enter into his bloodstream and tug him this way and that, as gentle and ebbing as a river current, as an ocean tide. Not forceful, not harsh; no, Yuuri isn't trying to say anything. He isn't trying to pour any emotions out, he isn't trying to prove himself or twist and turn his body into distorted shapes he's not yet capable of. He isn’t trying to be anyone, anything.

He’s just dancing.

He dances, because it’s _fun_ ; and by God, he’d almost forgotten that. He’d nearly crossed the point of no return, where he would be unable to remember it.

In the chaos and all the mayhem of studying an art so finely it became a chore, he forgot that he _loved dance,_ not because it was beautiful or because it made him feel something that nothing else could, but because, first and foremost, it was _fun_. It's _always_ been fun. And that's the reason he loves it to begin with. Because no matter how much joy he gets watching other people preform, it will never amount to the same joy that Yuuri feels when he dances himself.

And that's why he chose to do ballet; despite all those voices warring with him. Despite all the looks and all the murmurs, all the _are you sure?_ and _ballet is just a hobby, what will you do for a job?_

The enjoyment that ballet gives Yuuri drowns out all that noise, swallows all those words up until it’s just him and the music, the air to move in and the space to exist, and he's dancing somewhere within those notes, drawing them inside himself, pushing them back out, breathing them, shaping them into something they weren't before, shaping them into something that _belongs to him._

Yuuri only realises the music has stopped when the only noise he hears for a good, solid three seconds is his own harsh pants.

Yuuri comes to a halt, stops right there in the middle of Viktor's living room, bare feet landing on the carpet.

Yuuri is gasping, out of breath, and he runs a hand through his hair, disarraying it's already out-of-order state, sweat dampening his skull and making the hair on top of his head hot. He realises his skin must be sweaty too – flushed red with beads of sweat travelling down his stomach toward his navel. Yuuri fixes his glasses more securely and blinks, trying to see through the steam he’s created, and turns around to face Viktor.

Viktor is staring.

His gaze is nearly as hot as Yuuri _feels_ , but even just being on the receiving end makes Yuuri about ten times hotter, as if all his blood has suddenly been brought to the surface of his skin. Yuuri can already feel the darkening blush that stains his cheeks grow warmer and warmer, and he doesn't even want to imagine what it looks like.

Viktor swallows, clears his throat primly.

“Did it help?” He asks

And Yuuri laughs. It just seems to come out; a gust of wind that holds more air than it does laughter. But then a beam stretches every one of Yuuri’s features, until he’s sure he’s squinting his eyes and showing off all his teeth with the force of it.

“Yes!” He laughs. Happiness thrums throughout his entire body, so bright and vibrant Yuuri feels as if he can hardly contain it. As if he’ll burst; a star on the brink of combustion.

“It really did!” He laughs again. “I can’t believe it, I didn’t think it would, but it did! I feel so much better.” Yuuri grins. “Thank you, Viktor. It really worked.” He opens his arms out wide. “See? No insecurity.” Yuuri laughs again, the fact that he can look like this in front of Viktor making him believe he could look like this in front of anyone. Making him feel as if he could climb a mountain, jump right over it.

Viktor looks a bit stricken then, for some reason. “Ah, hai. Yes.” He seems so suddenly flustered that he reverts to Japanese for a moment, which, Yuuri being a grade-A stalker, knows that Viktor lived in for a while, despite being Russian himself.

Yuuri knows this, because he also lived in Japan before coming to London. Purely a coincidence, but he couldn't ever shake the strange feeling that it was fate.

Yuuri laughs again, a breathless chuckle.

“No criticisms?” He asks, because this is usually where Viktor relays everything that Yuuri just did wrong, or could improve on, that’s of course if he hasn’t already interrupted _physically_ in order to _show_ Yuuri.

Viktor blinks. “No.” He shakes his head. "Well, yes.”

Yuuri tilts his head, grinning. "Which is it?"

"I – you, I mean. I can't really." He seems to abort his sentence and makes a wordless gesture toward Yuuri.

Yuuri frowns. "What?"

"I have to." Viktor stands suddenly, crossing over to Yuuri in three quick strides.

Yuuri stiffens, stunned, just as Viktor reaches out and touches Yuuri's wrists, encasing them and pulling Yuuri in closer.

It's not as if he hasn't done this before; not as if he hasn't done this a _million times over,_ yet it's different now, it's so completely _different_.

Because Viktor is bare chested, and the heat emanates off him in thick, rolling waves. The smell of him strong and familiar this close, that same soft-scented, intangible thing that catches on the fringes of Yuuri's senses and makes him want to chase it, as if he's an animal in heat and Viktor Nikiforov is the only other soul he's ever found.

It makes something inside him claw and fight for escape, drag nails down the walls of his gut, nearly overcoming him and toppling him forward into Viktor’s arms, rub his nose into the side of Viktor’s neck and push their bodies completely flush.

Yuuri's clears his throat, tries to rear back and ignore the way his heartbeat has gone into overdrive, _palpably_ noticeable against Viktor’s thumbs where they’re fitted over Yuuri’s pulse points.

"Dance with me." Viktor states, voice rough, his eyes burning holes into Yuuri as he looks down. Their height difference has never been so prominent.

Yuuri blinks, feeling as if everything is underwater. "Sorry?" He manages, and even his own voice sounds strange.

"Dance with me. I'll show what I mean that way." Viktor states, despite their being something off in his voice, but before Yuuri can even respond he's being yanked into Viktor's chest and spun around.

Yuuri follows on instinct, his feet moving without conscious thought, but the rational, logical part of his brain has shut down, replaced with his baser, primitive side that is screaming, on an endless repeat, aaaaaaAAAAA _AAAAA **AAAA** –_

He tries not to let it show, tries to will away his erratic pulse and the blush suffusing his entire face to dark he’s sure to have gone _purple_ , but even if Viktor was trying to teach Yuuri something simple and basic, never mind trying to improve on the ballet skills he already possesses and refine them into something more elegant, Yuuri, in a _million lifetimes,_ would never be able to learn in their current predicament.

Viktor twists Yuuri in his arms, draws him in until their chests are centimetres apart, until Yuuri is sure he can feel their nipples brush with every movement and slight contact, sending sparks of electric sensation down Yuuri’s spine like a power-cut hose gone awry.

It's becoming too much; the arousal and exertion and the simple _proximity_ to everything Viktor is; his smell, his heat, his eyes, that Yuuri's mind is growing so clouded he can't see straight, think straight, think _anything–_

It only takes a second, but the pace is too much, too fast, and then in an instant Yuuri is tripping over one wrong move and heading for the floor.

He doesn’t hit it, however.

Viktor is there, a grip around both his arms, and then he somehow manages to twist them around mid-air so that he’s the one that lands with a hard _'oft'_ on his back, and Yuuri right on top of him.

“Oh, Viktor –” Yuuri gasps, scrambling for purchase and immediately forgetting he's _on top_ of Viktor, desperate to see if he's hurt.

Viktor is grimacing, but as Yuuri's hands fly to him, he holds one up.

"I – no, that was my fault, Yuuri I’m so sorry – k” His hand goes to the back of head, however, which Yuuri would have most definitely hit had it been him. Which it _was_ ; it was Yuuri’s fault they fell in the first place.

“Viktor, please –” Yuuri shifts forward, trying to reach out with a hand to feel Viktor’s head, when Viktor gasps, a soft-exhaled thing right in Yuuri's ear.

Yuuri stiffens.

It can’t be. Surely not.

Against his thigh, right where his leg has accidentally fallen in-between Viktor's and has pushed into his crotch, Yuuri feels the unmistakable sensation of hardness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YESSSSSS, I KNOW. I'm sorry!!! The next part is literally half-written, I will have it out in the next few days AT THE LATEST. That is not a lie.


	11. Coalesce

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> coalesce: come together to form one mass or whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: pffttt i cut my chapters into small, more consumable sections of 2-3K because that's easier for the reader  
> also me: *dumps this 6K chapter right at your feet* hey. yo. this. i writ. 
> 
> [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HG64DxxiF84) was the song I envisioned Yuuri dancing to in the last chapter, it's the opening song of Call Me By Your Name, which is a masterpiece, and this instrumnetal is the most gentle, lovely music. 
> 
> Alright, so this chapter is almost, nearly entirely smut. There are some feelings-talks, but not any that won't also be repeated and expanded on in the next chapter, so if smut makes u feel squiggly inside, please leave this one out. 
> 
> Also, in the last chapter, which was the first time I had updated in ?? three months (I know I'm bad), I completely forgot to tell all you dear people the reason. I had been in and out of hospital for a while with Crohn's Disease, and in December last year, I finally had the surgery, 29cm of bowel removed, and was pretty much out of commission for 2 months. I mentioned in my other fics but neglected to say here, which is ROOD, so sorry.
> 
> All in all, I apologise for the mammoth-ness that is this chapter, there was really no other way to cut it up or do any of those things, it's just one long, huge-ass smut scene.

“I – Yuuri, I – I –” Viktor babbles.

His eyes are as wide as Yuuri has ever seen them, stark fear – no, _terror_ visible in those blue depths. Viktor’s eyes are usually as warm and happy as his grin, bright as fairy lights at night, but now they’re as pale as his face. It’s unnatural, enough that Yuuri wants to do anything and everything he can to return them to their usual brightness.

If he could _move_.

Viktor’s mouth hangs open, jaw working soundlessly, _helplessly_ , and if scrambling and flailing for something to say, but coming up utterly empty. Gasping for breath after resurfacing; but finding there’s no air.

Yuuri is frozen; rigid. _This is surely not. It can't be._

“Yuuri, I am so sorry – I realise how unprofessional this looks, I – it is simply a reaction, I don’t mean –” Horrifically, it almost appears as if Viktor is about to _cry_ ; in fact, Yuuri is sure he can see Viktor’s eyes welling, despite their widened state. Water rises in his eyes, like the perfect imitation of an anime character. Yuuri didn’t even know it was physically possible. It almost seems involuntary, though, as if Viktor is just barely keeping from breaking down.

“Viktor.” Yuuri breathes. He can barely hear anything over the pounding of his heart, hammering in the backs of his ears. “Are you –”

“Yuuri, this means _nothing_.” Viktor states. The desperation is still evident in his voice, but is slowly being replaced with steely determination. “A simple mistake on my part, and if you don’t wish for me to continue teaching you, I have no qualms, but it means absolutely _nothing_. A simple biological reaction. This is not the reason I asked you to perform in front of me.” Viktor’s expression is set in stone; as if it’s incredibly important that Yuuri know this.

Suddenly, Yuuri feels as if he’s been punched in the gut.

Of course this is nothing.

_Yuuri, have you released recently? Have you been physical with anyone? Sometimes it can help you to relax. If you need some time, let me know._

This is nothing. It _means_ nothing. They were close, it’s instinctual. It’s probably so common for Viktor that he can barely tell the difference between being physical with someone and teaching someone.

 _Especially_ , Yuuri thinks ironically, _if you’re half-naked with the person._

 _Of course he’s hard,_ Yuuri thinks, _you’ve fallen on top of him, practically thrown yourself at him, and now you’re shocked that he’s popped a boner when you’re the one with a **thigh** shoved into his **groin**._

God.

Yuuri wants to _die_.

He peels himself off carefully. “Viktor, no. It was my fault.”

Viktor blinks, stunned.

“I – it’s only natural, I fell on top of you at an awkward angle and it must have caused this. I’m entirely to blame.” Yuuri confesses.

He sits up and shifts into a better position, kneeling before Viktor, and it’s only then that – _most horrifically_ – Yuuri realises he’s hard too.

And he’s currently showing off the tented fabric of his boxers to Viktor.

Yuuri really does die then. Before anything can happen, before he can react, a part of him falls away and dies.

Because he only notices when Viktor’s eyes widen, his flush darkening as his eyes flit back and forth, and Yuuri is confused before he looks down.

“Oh my – _Oh God,_ Viktor!” Yuuri cries, and then flails his hands around to cover himself, curling around his knees.

“Yuuri –” Viktor starts, a hand reaching out to touch him, but Yuuri cowers away like a wounded animal.

“Oh my God.” Yuuri hacks a weak laugh-cough into his knees, having soared past the limits of human embarrassment that the only emotion spreading throughout him is numbness. He presses his forehead against them, unable to even feel it. Unable to feel anything. “Look at us.”

It’s as Yuuri says those words that he blinks. He freezes.

_Look at them both._

In the exact same position, from the exact same thing.

Yuuri lifts his head and finds Viktor closer than he was a moment ago. His eyes have returned to their usual brightness, as light and blue as artificial LED’s, and yet Yuuri feels as if they’re somehow _hotter_ than before, a heat within them that he’s never seen.

He’s leaning forward on hands and knees, staring at Yuuri.

Yuuri stares back.

“Yuuri.” Viktor breathes. He’s still leaning in, getting closer and closer. Yuuri can feel his breath, fanning across Yuuri’s nose in a gentle, warm wave. He’s only swaying _closer_ , though.

“Viktor?” Yuuri exhales back, unable to raise his voice.

“Do?” Viktor begins but seems unable to continue, his voice barely above a murmur. The weight of the silence between them hangs heavy, unspoken, weighted, full of questioning hope.

Yuuri, desperate with desire and that same fizzling sensation in his bloodstream that comes whenever Viktor is near, can only manage a weak nod.

Viktor sways so far forward that their mouths join, slot at just the right angle.

Yuuri doesn’t move – doesn’t _react_ – for fear that this is all a dream, all a simple mistake, and everything will come crumbling down.

Nothing happens. Nobody moves.

Viktor is equally as still, equally as stiff, as Yuuri.

Slowly, slower than the passing of time, Yuuri lifts a hand and places it at the side of Viktor’s face.

Viktor exhales hard through his nostrils, as if he’d held that breath in, and the cold wind blows onto Yuuri’s face. But then Viktor sucks a sharp breath inward as he opens his mouth, cards fingers through the hair at the base of Yuuri’s skull, and drags him in.

And then everything happens at once.

This kiss, _this one_ , is the one that Yuuri has always imagined, the one he’s always wanted; it’s tongue and teeth and hands desperately scrambling to find one another, to find that place that feels like _you, you, there you are_.

Both of Yuuri’s hands fly up to frame Viktor’s face, curl around his jaw and slide into the thick thatch of silver hair and make sure he isn’t _going anywhere,_ whilst Viktor lifts his other hand from the floor to wrap around Yuuri’s shoulder, forcing their chests flush against one another while the other one grips the nape of Yuuri’s neck, breathlessly moving his mouth against Yuuri as if he’ll never get enough, as if he’s trying to as if he might simply _consume_ Yuuri.

“Viktor, _Viktor_ –” Yuuri pants, breathless, desperate to keep up. He feels as if he’s standing witness to something huge; something _important_.

And then Viktor scrambles back, stands up, and rushes out the room.

Yuuri is too stunned to even blink, too terrified to feel heartbroken yet, until Viktor appears with all their clothes and a huge beam.

“What –” Yuuri starts, but his voice dies in his throat.

_Does he want me to put on clothes? Can he really not bear to see me like this?_

“C’mon!” Viktor pants, throwing a shirt a Yuuri, blindly not even checking to see what he’s throwing, as a sock comes with. “We need to get dressed!”

Yuuri is completely and utterly dumbstruck.

Is Viktor really _this_ heartless? Can he honestly not stomach a shirtless Yuuri? How – if he was so willing a few moments ago – then _why_ –

Viktor is struggling into a pair of jeans, but other than the small joy of watching _Viktor Nikiforov_ trying and failing to pull them over his hips but being unable to because his frankly _painful-looking_ erection straining the material of his briefs, Yuuri is simply – confused.

Confused, and _hurt_.

 _“Why?”_ Yuuri asks and can’t quite keep it from his voice.

Viktor pauses, still smiling wide, totally unperturbed by Yuuri’s voice. “Because it’s all backwards! See, we need to kiss _before_ we take our clothes off, not the other way around, otherwise the universe gets very cross.” He states, and taps the side of his nose as his accent thickens. “Don’t want that.”

Yuuri is stumped.

And then he’s laughing. Everything lifts off him, and he’s laughing. “Oh my _God_." He chuckles, utterly fond. "You’re such a dork.”

Viktor leers in what Yuuri truly thinks is an attempt at being sexy, although it achieves being both sexy and adorable. Impossible, but there it is. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to take my clothes off.” He says, voice deepening to a lower pitch.

Yuuri swallows thickly, his throat constricting. There was absolutely _no way_ he could disagree with that.

He picks up the shirt that Viktor threw, and then realises that in Viktor’s haste, he's actually thrown his _own_ shirt.

Yuuri grins, devilish, and starts doing up the buttons, waiting to see when Viktor will notice.

Viktor has just barely won his battle with the trousers, although he’s left the zip, and as he glances up with a beam, it freezes on his face, fractures at the sides, when he sees Yuuri.

“Oops.” Yuuri states, lips curling upward just slightly. “This one’s yours.”

Viktor swallows, the action visible as his throat bobs. “Um. I think.” He looks down at the shirt he’s holding, blinking when he realises it’s Yuuri’s.

And then he just slides his arms into the sleeves.

Viktor Nikiforov is wearing his shirt.

Is wearing _Katsuki Yuuri's_ shirt.

Yuuri stands up and takes a step forward, still only in briefs and Viktor's too-big, too-expensive shirt, smelling of Viktor and sweat and _warmth_ and things Yuuri shouldn't be allowed, before he's standing directly in front of Viktor.

Viktor stares. “Yuuri.” Viktor breathes, reaching out. “You look –”

He doesn’t finish, because Yuuri beats him to it: takes the sides of his own shirt on Viktor, and does up the buttons.

Viktor watches, entranced, his eyes glazed over and a dumb, slackened expression on his face that undoes all of his facial muscles making Yuuri feel powerful.

Yuuri finishes the last button, right at the shirt collar, and brings his eyes to meet Viktor’s.

Viktor is so close the tips of their noses are almost brushing, his breath puffing out in short little bursts. The oxygen between them grows thinner, making Yuuri feel light-headed with the lack of it.

And then Yuuri pops open that button.

Viktor’s breath intakes sharply.

Yuuri undoes the next.

Viktor is frozen.

And then the next.

And then Yuuri undoes all of the buttons he just did.

Viktor is breathing hard, nearly panting at this point, but Yuuri continues until he's at the last, and then slowly, _painstakingly_ , unbuttons it.

The shirt just falls open, revealing pale, endless stretches of skin.

Yuuri doesn't stop there, though. He slides the sides right off Viktor's shoulders, pulls them down and away until Viktor is shirtless once more.

Then he throws the shirt to the floor.

Yuuri runs flat palms up Viktor’s long chest, revelling in the sensation of hard-soft, smooth skin underneath his hands, of endless ridges and ripples of muscle that tense and relax as he touches.

“Is this what you meant?” Yuuri breathes against Viktor's agape, open mouth.

And then Viktor falls forward and onto Yuuri's lips.

Yuuri gasps, his mouth opening to welcome Viktor’s tongue, a gentle brush against his own that seems to set him alight, somehow tender despite Viktor’s harsh, ragged breathing, despite the desperate slide of lips against his, the strength of Viktor’s grip.

Because Viktor’s hands come to rip at the shirt Yuuri's wearing, _Viktor’s_ shirt, and Yuuri could almost laugh at the giddiness of it all until Viktor’s hands run lower, beneath the material of the shirt to Yuuri's bare back, pulling him in until he’s pressed along the entire length of Viktor’s naked front.

Yuuri writhes, tipping his head back to catch his breath as the sensation of so much skin connected to his own nearly overwhelms him, making white-hot heat spread across his entire body in a forest fire.

Viktor takes the opportunity at Yuuri gasps to latch onto his neck, wet mouth sliding from his mouth across his jaw as if it can't bear to be parted from his skin for more than a split-second until it travels hotly down the side of his throat, teeth grazing flesh before taking the skin into his mouth.

Yuuri bucks, the sensations raining down upon him enough to make him thrash like a wild animal. Viktor’s teeth worry at his throat, bluntly nibbling, but Yuuri feels as if his throat is suddenly a livewire to _every single nerve_ inside his body, because as Viktor’s tongue begins laving at the skin, it’s as though the sensation reverberates through to every other cell.

Yuuri can barely contain it all. Sounds pour out of his mouth as if a damn has burst, guttural groans and short, sharply hitched moans and–

It only seems to spur Viktor on _more_ , his grip tightening to the point of pain, fingers digging into the meat of Yuuri's back and most probably leaving red claw marks, dents where his nails have been. The thought is oddly exciting, that Yuuri will be able to see the evidence of Viktor’s hands for days to come. In a fit of passion, Yuuri almost wants Viktor to leave _bruises_.

But then Viktor is walking him backwards, so quick and so sudden that Yuuri nearly trips over his own two feet until he’s unceremoniously slammed up against the wall.

A mouth lands on his again, sloppy this time, technique and tenderness forgotten as Viktor devours his lips with his own. Yuuri can only _try_ to keep up, heart rate accelerated past physical endurance and now simply one long, continuous, jack-rabbit thrum. He’s never felt more like a wild animal, but he’s also never seen someone look so wild and desperate as Viktor does right now.

“Viktor.” Yuuri gasps, and takes both of Viktor’s shoulders in his hands.

Viktor stills in an instant, pulling away to stare at Yuuri, his eyes wide and frightened. “Yuuri if – if you don’t –”

Yuuri hushes him, gentle hands running along his shoulders up to his face, cradling Viktor’s jaw gently. “ _Viktor_. There’s no need to rush.” He murmurs, letting their foreheads fall against one another. “We have time.”

Viktor exhales a gust of a breath. “Sorry.” He whispers shakily. “I just – I suppose I never thought this would happen.”

Yuuri blinks. “ _You_ never thought this would happen?” He can barely keep the incredulity from his voice.

Viktor lowers his gaze. “I – Yuuri, I’m your teacher–”

“Mentor.” Yuuri interrupts.

Viktor gives him a look. “ _Tutor_.” He states, but there’s a slight twitch to his mouth, before he huffs again. “I – I never _once_ entertained the idea of telling you, thinking – _knowing,_ actually – that you would probably feel obliged to humour for me for a while –”

Yuuri opens his mouth, wanting to confess to Viktor just _how_ wrong that idea is, how wrong Viktor actually is, because from the very first moment Yuuri glimpsed the sight of Viktor on a fuzzy phone screen at the tender age of twelve, he had decided – or less him, more his heart, or his soul, or some other part of him that he can’t control – that is was Viktor, and would always be Viktor, and _had_ to be Viktor. Nobody else.

Viktor holds up a hand. “Yuuri, please, just let me finish. I have – I have to let you know, that this, my –” Viktor waves a hand around for a moment. “How I _feel_ about you _–_ it has no bearing on my ability to teach you, and no influence over why I wanted to teach you. You’re one of the best students I’ve ever had the honour of mentoring, and – _these feelings_ arose because of that, and I – if you want to stop, if you feel uncomfortable at all, it won’t change anything; I’ll still mentor you, everything will remain strictly professional –”

“Viktor.” Yuuri murmurs, fond, and strokes a thumb over Viktor’s cheekbone. “I’m nineteen, not nine. I have free will. _I want this._ And not just because you’re my teacher or because your ‘Viktor Nikiforov’. But because I _want_ this.”

As Yuuri is speaking, he realises the sudden, inexplicable parallels to the younger Yuri’s speech as he tried to convince Otabek that his feelings were true. And the way Viktor is looking at him; watching him, _waiting_ – it reminds him eerily of the sullen, withdrawn Otabek.

And then Yuuri sees the hunched set of Otabek’s shoulders at the lunch table, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on his untouched food. _Don’t call him that. The other Yuri._

Yuri had thought Otabek didn’t want a public relationship because he didn’t feel as strongly. But that wasn’t true, was it? It just wasn’t true.

Otabek is scared.

Viktor looks exactly the same.

And what had Yuri done to dissolve those fears? What was it he had said. The memory is so vague for only being a few days ago, and yet Yuuri’s head was reeling from the revelation. But what had Yuri said again? What had Otabek?

_Do you think I’m three? Do you think I don’t know the difference between loving someone and being forced?_

_Yura,_ a soft breath _, I’ve never felt like this for anyone._

Yuuri’s head snaps up in realisation.

He has to convince Viktor of his feelings.

“Viktor.” Yuuri starts, swallows thickly. “It’s not just because your Viktor Nikiforov, or my ballet teacher, or anything else. It’s because you’re _you_ ; you’re funny and kind and sometimes a little nuts, but I – I’ve never met anyone like you. And I don’t think I ever will. You’re patient but firm and always seem to know what I need, what I _want_ , but more importantly you’ve made me love ballet again when I never thought I could. You’re gorgeous and always so happy its infectious and everytime I see you, it’s like.” Yuuri’s cheeks burn. “My day is made.” He clears his throat. “It’s like the sun is in my stomach.” He confesses.

_Was that too much? Maybe it was too much?_

Viktor stares, unblinking. He does nothing for a moment, so much so that Yuuri is almost scared he’s said something _wrong_.

And then Viktor abruptly grasps the backs of his thighs and hoists him up.

Yuuri gasps, stunned. He’s not unused to being lifted around and manhandled by one Viktor Nikiforov, however, he is _wholly unused_ to the way their fronts press against one another, skin on skin, and Yuuri’s crotch presses deliciously to Viktor’s abdomen, his erection pressing into the soft skin of stomach that gives under the pressure, yet is somehow still strong and muscled as well.

Yuuri is light-headed.

“I’m sorry, Yuuri.” Viktor states, their noses brushing with the proximity. Hs voice has gone low, dark, although his expression is blank, almost serene. “I mean, I might have been able to restrain myself, despite your complete lack of clothes, along with being forced to watch you perform with said lack of clothing, but after hearing that, it’s quite simply impossible to hold back.” After that, Viktor secures his grip around Yuuri and starts toward the stairs.

“Wh – where are we going?” Yuuri pants.

“Upstairs.” Viktor informs him. “I intend to do all the things I’ve not been doing so far.”

“O – oh.” Yuuri stutters. “Okay.”

Viktor doesn’t say or do anything throughout the journey up the stairs, but his fingers are digging into the backs of Yuuri’s thighs, and dammit if Yuuri isn’t squirming already, unconsciously trying to press closer to the warmth of Viktor’s body, the roughness of his dry hands on the sensitive skin of Yuuri’s legs, so close to his backside it has Yuuri dizzy and dry-mouthed.

“Viktor.” Yuuri breathes against the shell of Viktor’s ear.

“Won’t be long.” Viktor states, and then opens a door and practically flings Yuuri down.

Yuuri falls onto a soft, spongy mattress, and he’s barely caught his breath before Viktor falls heavy on him.

His mouth finds Yuuri in the chaos of their limbs, and Viktor kisses him hungry and possessive this time, biting and pressing and grasping the back of Yuuri’s head to force him closer.

Yuuri can only cling on for dear life, his heartbeat an erratic stop-and-start as if it’s unsure whether to beat into overtime or simply give up and cease movement all together, until Viktor slides up right against him and aligns their bodies – or, more importantly, their _hips_.

Yuuri can’t contain the startled moan ripped from his throat. He needs to tear his mouth away from the attack again, a guttural groan emanating from his chest as if welling up from the very pit of him and pouring out.

“ _Gods_ , Yuuri –” Viktor pants, theses short bursts of breath escaping as he tries to speak, but he isn’t stopping, blazing a hot mouth down Yuuri’s neck and all the way to his collarbone.

 _“Vi_ –” Yuuri hiccups, before Viktor pushes the sides of his shirt away, exposing Yuuri’s naked chest and running the blunt edges of his teeth along one of Yuuri’s pecs until he just sinks teeth in and bites.

“Ah – a –” Yuuri bucks, until Viktor finds his left nipple next to the skin he just sunk his teeth into, and Yuuri is almost scared his nipple will receive the same treatment until Viktor’s wet lips encircle the nub, his tongue flicking against it in a repeated torture.

“Vi _–Viktor!”_ Yuuri cries, a broken shout, but it falls on deaf ears as Viktor continues the assault, moving onto his other nipple and lavishing attention to it as well, waiting until they’re spit-slicked, stony little pebbles.

“Yuuri, you’re so ...” Viktor breathes against him, but seems unable to continue, or rather, he simply decides against it in favour of continuing down the path of Yuuri’s stomach, teeth grazing the sensitive flesh of Yuuri’s abdomen, sending sparks to shoot from upwards from the base of his spine.

Before Yuuri even knows it, however, Viktor is inching lower and lower, and it takes a desperate scramble from Yuuri to escape the mad clutches of Viktor; already too close and Yuuri is too exposed and he can’t – he doesn’t want Viktor to see –

"Viktor." Yuuri squirms, shuffling up the bed, and Viktor looks up, his eyes glassy and glazed over.

"Hm?" Viktor inquires politely, despite looking anything but.

"I – I –” Yuuri stutters, helplessly flushed and embarrassed and exposed. "I'm –”

Viktor, putting on the appearance of listening, hooks two fingers under the waistband of his briefs and starts to tug gently, as though Yuuri surely won't notice.

 _"Viktor!"_ Yuuri yelps, and yanks them back up.

Viktor blinks, stunned, and then something hard settles over his features.

“Don't tell me you’re self-conscious, Yuuri." He murmurs.

Yuuri swallows.

"Please don't tell me you think I don't want to see you naked." Viktor growls. "That I haven't thought about you naked for a month."

Yuuri swallows, harder. _A month?_ It’s nothing on Yuuri's five years.

Still, giddiness flutters from his gut upwards like leaves on a sidewalk, blown by the wind.

"Yuuri." Viktor says, and hooks his fingers in Yuuri's briefs again. "Don't keep me waiting. I've waited long enough now, imagining this."

Yuuri snorts, but it's weak, more like a mewl. "I – don't think the imagination will live up, Viktor." He states. He would try to sound sarcastic if his voice didn't fall so flat with the truth.

"And there it is." Viktor murmurs, blue eyes fixed on Yuuri, the intensity of them almost too much to bear. "The crux of the issue."

Yuuri wriggles under that gaze.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you that you're one of the most perfect things I've ever seen? If not the _most_ perfect?"

Yuuri's face erupts into flames. " _Viktor –"_ he protests.

Viktor quirks an eyebrow. "See? And yet you would believe anything negative I had to say."

Yuuri swallows. He can't deny that, either.

"Why, Yuuri?" Viktor murmurs, breath gusting across Yuuri's bare pelvis. "Why is that?"

"I don't know." Yuuri wants to snap, but his voice is still too weak. It comes out more of a petulant huff than anything.

Viktor grins, as if sensing Yuuri's childish petulance. "Hm? Why won't you believe that, _personally,_ to me you're the most attractive person I've ever met."

Yuuri goes to interrupt, but Viktor continues.

"Mm? That I dream of running my hands through your thick hair, gently taking those glasses off and bending to kiss that terribly annoying, _wonderfully perfect_ mouth?"

Yuuri's cheeks are ablaze, but most worryingly is the definite stirring below he feels at Viktor's words, the tell-tale flush of feeling that floods into his gut and tingles all the way down to his core.

"That sometimes as you're dancing, I imagine walking over and pulling you close, feeling all those hard and soft curves for myself, feeling the way you move against me instead of just watching?"

Yuuri can hardly swallow this thick feeling in his throat.

"That I want nothing more most days than to rip those skin-tight leggings off, sink to my knees and worship your body?"

Yuuri can't hide the reaction he's having to Viktor's words any longer, because the evidence is _very literally_ right in front of his face.

Yuuri hardens fully underneath Viktor’s gaze, Viktor's attention and Viktor's praise, and Yuuri can't squirm away quick enough before Viktor blinks, glances to the front of Yuuri's briefs and notices the earlier bulge is not longer, well ... a _bulge_ anymore.

Viktor's mouth falls open, and Yuuri will _die._

"Viktor." He groans.

"Yuuri, are you ..." Viktor begins.

"No! I don't know! Maybe." He grumbles, feeling defensive and raw.

Viktor leans down and presses the softest kiss on top of his erection, over the slightly damp material of his boxers.

"Guu –” Yuuri groans, that one simple touch lighting him up inside.

"You're so beautiful like this." Viktor murmurs, and Yuuri would have disagreed straight away, as he does with any compliment he receives, until Viktor just slots his mouth over Yuuri's cock straining the fabric in a mortifying tent, just where his head is protruding.

Yuuri bucks, shocked, and then Viktor's hands snake around and grasp his hips, holding him down.

"Vik –” Yuuri gets as far.

"You don't even know." Viktor's breath ghosts over Yuuri, and despite the thin layer of cloth separating Viktor's mouth and Yuuri's flesh, Yuuri still feels all the sensations as if he were bare. He shudders, spasms running up his legs as he quakes.

"You can't even see; the way people look at you. The way everyone is mesmerised when you dance."

The words float up to Yuuri's head, as if he's slowing sinking into warm, welcoming waters; enveloping every one of his senses until he's simply lying there, basking in the glow. He tries to open his mouth, _form_ something, but finds himself wholly incapable of words.

"And look at you like this; so flushed, so hard, just for me. So perfect, all the sounds you make, you sensitive to even the lightest touches."

What Yuuri _is_ _sensitive to,_ is Viktor's _voice_ , wrapping around the words and making them something else altogether; like reeds underneath the sea that brush against him, tickle the soles of his feet, wrap around his ankles. Yuuri is _drowning_.

"I can't wait to see you fall apart, Yuuri, I can't wait to see all of you, to _know_ all of you –”

Before Yuuri can even react, his briefs are tugged down so far that his cock pops free, slapping obscenely against his stomach before curling to rest at his hip.

Viktor throws his briefs away before he gazes down as if he's looking at a prize, and then takes Yuuri's erection in hand, marvelling at the feel.

 _"Yuuri."_ Viktor's breath blows over the head of Yuuri's cock, the tip flushed a deep, maroon-red and weeping profusely. The skin over the top is peeling back, revealing just how aroused he is, already full-mast from Viktor's compliments.

"So perfect, so wonderful." Viktor murmurs, nonsensical, and Yuuri tries to complain until Viktor bends and runs his bottom lip along Yuuri's shaft, from the bottom to top, just the dry, soft skin of his mouth.

"Ah!" Yuuri groans, simultaneously over-sensitised and overwhelmed from that one action, but also desperate for more, desperate for friction, for _pleasure_.

And then Viktor chuckles, dark, and flicks his tongue against the head of Yuuri's cock.

Yuuri tenses all over; the warning siren flashing deep in the pit of him that screams _close, close, too much, too soon too close._

"Vi – Viktor, I'll come, I swear I'm being serious." He says, finding his voice after minutes of being rendered mute. It tumbles out in a rush, in a fast-paced breath that probably illustrates how serious he’s being.

Viktor blinks, lifting his head. "But." He says. He almost looks as if he’s about to pout. "I haven't – _tasted_ you yet."

Yuuri lifts his head up, his hair most likely puffing out in a halo, glasses askew, lips bitten and swollen red.

Viktor blinks, perfectly innocent.

“Well, let.” He starts, and swallows, clears his throat. "Let me do you."

Viktor eyes darken; his pupils expanding outward to consume the blue. "Alright."

Yuuri shuffles, ready to reverse their positions, and is somehow _more_ excited about the prospect of seeing, feeling, _tasting_ , Viktor’s cock than the prospect of Viktor’s mouth on his own.

Yet Viktor doesn’t budge.

Yuuri blinks, confused.

"I." Viktor starts. “I – I really do want to taste you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri flushes. "You, um. You can taste me afterwards." Even _saying_ that makes him flush harder than physically possible. It’s clear what it’ll be after, but still, Yuuri is thrumming with energy.

Viktor swallows thickly. "But. I." He seems unable – _unwilling –_ to say the words clearly wriggling around in his mouth.

Yuuri tilts his head.

“I. I like tasting you, Yuuri. It’s making me, um. I want to keep doing it, while I. Uh. While I jerk myself off.”

Yuuri.

_Did not expect that._

Viktor is looking down at a spot near Yuuri’s thigh, and it dawns on Yuuri that he's embarrassed. No, not embarrassed. _Ashamed_.

"Viktor." Yuuri breathes.

"If that’s – weird –”

"So hot." Yuuri rushes. "That’s _so hot,_ Viktor."

Viktor's cheeks are as red as Yuuri has ever seen them, as red as Yuuri hopes he'll _only_ get to see. He doesn’t want anyone else to see this perfect version of Viktor; flushed and panting and so, achingly beautiful.

"I have an idea, though." As soon as Yuuri says the words, he wants to swallow them back into his mouth and make them disappear.

Viktor blinks, looks up.

"Um." Yuuri is so flushed, there should be steam billowing from his cheeks. "I just. We could –at the same time. Um. Try it."

Viktor tilts his head, frowns, and then his eyes widen. "You mean sixty-nine?" He asks.

Yuuri, _again_ , wants to die.

"I mean, it's just –”

Viktor shuffles up like a puppy that's been told to come to its master, and catches Yuuri's mouth in an eager, uncoordinated kiss, happiness and desire and sheer _excitement_ conveyed in that one act.

"Yes, yes, yesyes _yesyes_ –”

Yuuri chuckles, his gut as warm and fluffy as cotton candy, quickly turning to hot, molten mush inside him. His heart picks up speed, kicks into overdrive like a monitor whirring to life, until it just overheats and crashes, breaking down and blacking out.

"Alright, alright." Viktor shuffles back. "How – where do you – what way –”

Viktor uncharacteristically shy and bashful is an arrow straight through Yuuri's chest and out his back.

"Um, I don't mind, you could -- on top? If it's easier." Yuuri adds hastily.

Viktor is quick to comply. He turns his body around and throws a leg across Yuuri's waist, both knees planted in the mattress, back facing Yuuri.

Then he twists his head around to look at Yuuri sideways.

"This isn't – are you alright?" He huffs a laugh, flushed. "I feel as if I've just, well. Shoved my bum in your face, Yuuri."

Yuuri laughs, a sudden, startled noise, and then Viktor's face is splitting into a beam.

"Not that I'm complaining!" Yuuri chuckles, and runs his hands up along Viktor's bare thighs, giving them a squeeze.

Viktor presses his forehead to Yuuri's stomach, sighing forlornly. "This is ... not as romantic as I thought it would be."

Yuuri softens, fond. "Isn't that the point?" He asks.

Viktor blinks, lifts his head.

"That we're both ... comfortable enough to be awkward and embarrassing. It doesn't have to be romantic, as long as it's ... fun." Yuuri finishes, trailing off.

Viktor looks at him for a long moment. And then, slowly, he leans down and presses his mouth to Yuuri's bare cock.

Yuuri gasps, bucking up helplessly. He bites his lip, tries to muffle the sounds, before Viktor's tongue sneaks out and licks a stripe up his erection.

"Vik –” Yuuri tries, and then realises that inches away from his face, under his nose, is Viktor's own cock.

There’s a tell-tale damp patch staining the front of Viktor's worn, thin cotton boxer-briefs, but most noticeable is his swollen cock protruding from the material, so much so that the head is peeking out of the waistband, smearing pre-cum across his navel, catching in the coarse silver hairs of his happy trail.

Yuuri lifts up, stretching his neck, and presses his mouth softly to the bottom of Viktor's cock, to where he knows Viktor’s balls are.

As hoped, Viktor gasps, his mouth stuttering on Yuuri's cock as he presses down into the contact.

"A – ah, Yuuri." Viktor pants, his voice gone honeyed-warm and _oh, so soft._ "Yuuri, please."

Yuuri, with shaking, trembling hands, reaches up to peel away Viktor's briefs. His cock bobs free, hitting Yuuri in the chin gently, and Viktor makes a surprised, apologetic noise, moving as if to turn, until Yuuri slides his underwear down both legs and forcefully rips them off.

Finally, _blissfully_ naked, Viktor balances above him. the scent of his cock wafts over Yuuri, salty and bitter and strong. Yuuri presses up again and touches his lips to Viktor's naked sack, opening his mouth and letting his tongue gently lave over the flesh.

Viktor, in retaliation, takes the seeping head of Yuuri's cock into his mouth. Yuuri would gasp if his mouth wasn't already occupied.

Wet, warm heat enfolds the tip of his cock, stretching out past the folds of his foreskin, the most sensitive part of him. Yuuri tries not to rock his hips forward as Viktor runs his tongue up, gripping the meat of Viktor's thighs before he runs them higher and digs fingers into Viktor's plump, round arse, sighing as his hands finally revel in the sensation of soft, fleshy muscle under his touch.

Viktor bucks into his hands, and Yuuri stretches his arse cheeks apart, rolls them in his hands and massages the skin.

 _"Yuu –”_ Viktor groans around his tip, and the vibrations cause reverberating pleasure to shoot from Yuuri's toes upward.

And then, _most cruelly,_ Viktor takes more of Yuuri into his mouth and sinks downward.

Yuuri's cock is slowly encompassed by the softest, wettest warmth he's ever felt, right down to the root.

 _"Ah!"_ Yuuri cries out, his hips stuttering, before Viktor's mouth slides upward again, dragging out the most ragged, raw sounds Yuuri has ever made, along with the sharpest, most intense pleasure he's ever experienced.

Yuuri, needing to retaliate, grips Viktor's hips and forces them into position as he reaches a hand around and grips the base of Viktor's cock. Pre-cum is leaking steadily now, the head flushed pink and the slit wet. Yuuri can’t help himself, and lifts his head to tongue at the slit, applying pressure with the tip of as he flicks it back and forth.

Viktor whines, his thighs tensing and un-tensing as if trying to stop himself from moving too fast, but Yuuri wants him too, he wants Viktor to let go, to _go wild –_

And so he swallows the rest of Viktor, taking as much as he can into his mouth.

Viktor _writhes_ , but then as punishment starts sucking Yuuri faster, his head bobbing back and forth even as his hips snap forward weakly, as if trying and failing to contain themselves.

Yuuri feels himself reaching the end faster than expected; simply from the noises of Viktor above him, the weight of him on Yuuri's tongue, the heady scent of him so close and the flavour exploding inside his mouth in a cacophony of bitter, salty _Viktor_.

Viktor seems to be growing more erratic as well, going faster and faster, and then before Yuuri knows it, the mouth around his cock becomes his undoing; Viktor does something with his teeth that scrapes just gently over Yuuri shaft and then he’s gone; bucking up as he comes into Viktor's mouth.

Viktor doesn’t even stop; milking Yuuri dry and swallowing around his thrusts, the walls of his throat constricting. Yuuri can feel himself throbbing, his orgasm reaching its peak.

He _moans;_ louder and longer than he ever has: a wanton; shameless noise, echoing around the room.

That seems to send Viktor over the edge.

He comes, flooding inside Yuuri's mouth, and Yuuri swallows as much as he can, if only to continue to draw out those delicious, wild sounds from Viktor above him.

Viktor escapes from his mouth and some of his cum hits Yuuri’s chin, his chest.

Yuuri pants, gasping air back into his lungs, and then Viktor collapses in a heap on top of him, still mindful of his weight as he distributes some onto the bed. His body is a hot, sweaty blanket that drapes over Yuuri's frame, and Yuuri laughs, breathless, and wraps his arms around Viktor's waist, hugging him upside-down.

Yuuri can hear Viktor laughing as well, feel it as it shakes the bones of Viktor's shoulders, and so Yuuri lifts his head and presses a kiss to Viktor's left arse cheek.

Viktor makes a startled noise, and laughs louder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that was that! They lived happily ever after and bought a castle and had more fun. 
> 
> For the next chapter, though, I'm planning on awkward first dates and fluffy fluff and some ballet boys trying out ice-skating for fun and more feelings-talks and Yuri and Otabek too. In case you were curious. I have A Plan.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also Peasantaries on [Tumblr](https://peasantaries.tumblr.com/), [ Twitter](https://twitter.com/peasantaries), and [ Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/peasantaries/)! Come over and talk to me! I'll never bite <33
> 
> If you want to find ways to support me, you can find them there! (*^▽^*)( ﾉ^ω^)ﾉﾟ


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